


Because You Left, Part Two

by lookninjas



Series: Because You Left [2]
Category: Glee, Lost
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 135,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, Ben Linus killed several of his own people and left the Island on a stolen submarine, with a child that wasn't really his. They've been on the run together ever since.  But no one can run forever.  Eventually, there comes a time to stand and fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning is the End (is the Beginning)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Given the number of non-LOST characters in the story, it shouldn't be totally inaccessible to those who weren't LOST fanatics. And for those who are LOST fanatics -- this fic is massively, massively AU. Massive. Massive AU. So while some things will carry over from the show, others will not, and lots of things will probably be warped all out of recognition.
> 
> In short: This is Bat Country.
> 
> This fic is a work in progress. Parts One and Two are complete, Part Three is being written, and Part Four has been planned and outlined. I've been lucky enough to have beta help from several very awesome people as writing has progressed: rena_librarian, specialj67 and seealexwrite (who edited 1.17, and believe me it needed the both of them), the-rainbow-jen, and the indispensable seldnei.
> 
> It is perhaps worth noting that the fic actually went on hiatus for about a year between Part One and Part Two. I don't think my writing style changed that much in that time, but there may be some small stylistic differences (although, as the fic gradually shifts away from Lima, those were bound to happen anyway.)

 

It will be gone before he turns thirty, replaced by a high whistling sound and an image of an empty rocking chair in an abandoned room, a relentless pounding of drums and the number 23 written in red crayon, highlighted by yellow.

And like everything else he's lost, nothing will ever give it back to him. There will be no sudden moment of realization, no crumpling of his knees as the memories wash over him and he finally understands. All that will remain is the song:

_For love may come a-tapping on your shoulder  
Some starless night_

And he won't remember where he heard it, that first time, but he'll know what it means.

_Blaine._

Blaine with his tiny head of sparse, dark curls; his small, perfect hands clenched into fists. Blaine on that very first night, after his mother had been killed, after Ben had saved him. He'd fussed -- after all, he'd had his reasons -- and Ben had held him close, blanket-swaddled and infinitely precious, and had sung that song to him by the dying embers of the campfire, softly, unwilling to let anyone else share in this moment, his first moment with his son.

_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket  
Never let it fade away._

And honestly, why should he wonder where the song came from? Why does it matter if the song might once have been sung to someone else?

It's Blaine's song now. Nothing else matters.

 

*

**now**

 

He pulls up alongside the curb, the car shuddering to a stop, puts it into park and just sits there for a moment, with the engine running and his son in the passenger seat. "Well," he says, glancing up at the rearview mirror to watch Kurt's Navigator pull into the parking lot behind them. "Are you ready for this?"

There's no answer for a little while, and when Ben looks over, he sees his son chewing his lower lip, thoughtful. "Actually," Blaine says, slowly, "I think I am." He looks back at his father. "How about you?" he asks.

"No," Ben says, immediately, and Blaine smiles, his eyes warming. "No, not in the slightest."

"Dad," Blaine says, and settles his hand over Ben's, still resting on the gearshift.

Ben can hear the doors of Kurt's Navigator banging shut, as the boys climb out and grab their bags. They'll be at the car any second now, waiting for Blaine to join them. But Ben twines his fingers with Blaine's anyway, just for a moment.

They've done this about a dozen times now, the first day of school. After every attack, after every panicked flight, once normalcy is restored and they're safe again, this is the next cautious step -- they put a little bit of distance between themselves, let go of each other just the smallest of amounts. It's necessary, of course, but it's never easy, and this time it's particularly hard.

Which is strange, really, because the distance is smaller than it's ever been.

"I'll have Kurt and Finn," Blaine says, thumb stroking over Ben's knuckles. "And all of their friends. They'll look out for me."

"I know," Ben says, voice soft, and keeps his eyes on the steering wheel. "I know, Blaine."

"And if anything happens, Dad, anything at all, you'll be right there. I know you will." And he sounds so sure, so quietly and sincerely and completely sure, that Ben manages to look up at him for a moment. Then he's reaching out, awkwardly, the two of them still hooked in to seatbelts and pinned mostly to their seats but still somehow managing to get their arms around each other.

Blaine pats Ben's cheek as he sinks back into his seat. "You'll be right there," he says, again.

And he will. Because it doesn't matter what could go wrong -- it doesn't matter that the pain in his back is softening into a sort of numbness that is probably a very bad sign. It doesn't matter that at least two of the Oceanic survivors are still in Lima, still potentially a threat. It doesn't even matter that he'll no longer be able to carry his sidearm into McKinley. If he has to crawl through fire to get to his son, he'll do it. That's it. That's the only thing that matters.

"Well," Ben says again, and musters a smile. Finn and Kurt have made their way to the sidewalk just beyond Ben's little car, bags on their shoulders; they're both very carefully looking away from Ben and Blaine, up at the looming bulk of McKinley. "I suppose we'd better get a move on. Miss Pillsbury would like to talk to you before classes start, and I'd hate to keep her waiting."

Blaine looks at Ben for a long time, then he reaches out and pats Ben's hand again before undoing his seatbelt. And although Kurt is still pointedly looking away from Ben's car, he must somehow still manage to catch the movement, because as soon as Blaine's hand lands on the inside handle of the door, Kurt is scrambling to open up the backseat and pull out Blaine's crutches and his bag. Before Ben really even knows what's happened, the doors are shut again and Blaine's on the sidewalk with Kurt and Finn.

He rolls down the passenger-side window. "Remember," he says. "Wait right here for me. I'll only be a minute."

And Blaine rolls his eyes at him, and smiles, a little easier and more relaxed now that he's got Kurt and Finn with him. "Go park the car, Dad," he calls back.

So that's what Ben does. He puts the car into drive, pulls around behind the school, and parks in his old spot once again.

And he takes just a moment to look up at the school again, the way he's seen it so many times. It's unfortunate, really; he never really felt entirely comfortable here, but he came close, a time or two. And now, there's that threat, the memory of his son bleeding in the basement...

They haven't run, this time. But they're not home, either.

Ben takes a deep breath, takes the key out of the ignition, and slowly and carefully climbs out of the car.

 

*

 

"What do you think they're talking about in there?" Finn asks, leaning back against the display case outside Miss Pillsbury's office. It creaks under his weight and he jolts forward again, looking back like the case has betrayed him; Kurt has to work to hide a snicker.

"Just..." Kurt shrugs. "I don't know, the same things Santana and I had to talk about, probably. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, flashbacks... She has this pamphlet on _What To Do When You Can't Stop Shaking_ ; I actually thought it was kind of helpful. Weird, but helpful." He sighs, watching the back of Blaine's head through the glass of Miss Pillsbury's office windows, wishing he could see his face, his expressions, watch the emotions going through his head. "Although I suppose they probably know all about that already."

"Yeah," Finn says, quietly, and leans into Kurt for just a second, his arm brushing against Kurt's shoulder in a way that makes Kurt give him a look of startled gratitude. It's still odd that Finn's willing to touch him now; it's something he can't quite get used to, not yet. "Did he... um... Did he sleep okay, last night? Blaine, I mean. Nothing... Nothing happened."

Nothing except Kurt waking up with his face buried in Blaine's hair, one arm and one leg splayed over him, Blaine's hand resting at his waist. Nothing except Kurt actually cuddling in closer, covering Blaine even more with his own body while Blaine's fingers tightened in his shirt and Blaine mumbled in his sleep, and even when Blaine's father knocked at the door again, they couldn't seem to will themselves into motion. Blaine just turned his head a little, and Kurt shifted downwards on the bed, and then suddenly Blaine's lips were right there, surprisingly pink and soft-looking, curving up into a sleepy smile, and for just a moment, Kurt almost thought he could --

But then Mr. Anderson called out, "You know, Kurt, if you'd rather sleep in a little bit, I can give Finn the first shower," and Kurt pulled back quickly, too quickly, so fast that he almost didn't see the way Blaine's smile fell from his face and his eyes widened with hurt. And Kurt wanted so badly just to slide back in and... He wasn't sure what he was going to do; he thinks it might have involved Blaine's pink lips and his hand on Kurt's waist and Kurt wrapping himself around Blaine like a shield.

But Blaine's father was right outside the door, so Kurt didn't do anything at all.

"No," he says, and has to work hard to keep the regret out of his voice. "Nothing happened."

"Good," Finn says, encouragingly. "I mean, I kind of figured, 'cause he was like, eating and stuff this morning, but." He pauses, looks over at Kurt. "I just hope it's not a problem tonight," he adds. "I mean, with Mom and Burt coming home, and everything, so Blaine won't have anyone to sing to him, or --"

Kurt swallows hard, stares at the back of Blaine's head, willing him to move just a little, just so Kurt can see his profile and know what's going on, what he's thinking about.

Then Miss Pillsbury passes a pamphlet over the desk and Blaine really does turn, staring at his father even as his father turns to give him a little shrug, and it doesn't loosen all of the tightness in Kurt's chest, but it helps. Because Blaine doesn't look scared, or traumatized, or helpless; he looks... _confused_. Like, whatever kind of guidance counselors they've got at Dalton, they're nothing at all like Miss Pillsbury. And maybe another time, Kurt might get defensive about that, get defensive on behalf of his school and his teachers and the weirdness that is his home, but after everything he and Blaine have already gone through together (they haven't even known each other a month yet, and yet --)

Honestly, it's just nice to see Blaine look okay for a second.

"He's got his dad," Kurt says. "He'll be all right."

And he's pretty sure it's the truth. Blaine has his father; he'll be fine if Kurt's not there. They've been doing this a long time; they'll be okay.

And if part of Kurt wishes he could go back for just one more night, just to see what might happen, what he might be brave enough to do ( _Courage_ , Blaine told him) ... Well. He'll keep that to himself, for now.

 

*

 

Santana passes her makeup bag over to the security guards before she makes her way through the metal detectors, just like every other day. Just like every other day, they pull everything out -- study her emery boards like they're trying to figure out how she'll turn them into shivs, cast a wary eye over her eyelash curlers and eyebrow brush. And just like every day, they give everything back to her in the end, let her flounce through the security checkpoint, ponytail bouncing.

But it's not like every other day. Because Kurt's standing outside Miss P's office, with Finn next to him. And as Santana gets closer, Miss P's office door opens, and that weirdo calculus teacher -- Mr. Anderson, with his little round glasses and his receding hairline and his sweatervest and his knowing too many things about how to use a gun -- comes out, holds the door for his son. There's no Dalton uniform anymore, but it's not like the street clothes are that much of an improvement; the kid's got a sweatervest of his own on, and a bow tie, black dress shoes polished to a shine and dark hair shellacked down to his head. Because obviously, transferring McKinley is a big deal, and the kid's got to be wearing his Sunday best to be here. No point in getting slushied if you're not wearing clothes worth ruining, after all.

It's not like Santana doesn't know what they're doing there; what she doesn't understand is _why_.

But it's not her place to ask them, and it's not like she even cares, so she doesn't.

She clutches her manila envelope to her chest and keeps walking on down to the admin section, through the warren of offices and desks to the very back. To the nurse's office.

There's some gray-haired little old lady puttering around with the filing cabinet in the corner, talking to herself as she flicks through the folders, "So that's the one with the insulin shots, and then..." and Santana frowns and clears her throat, because seriously? Who the hell is this woman and why is she going through people's private medical information? The woman startles a little, turns around, and gives Santana a very distinct once-over. "If you're looking for your HGH injection," she says, with a sniff, "I can tell you right now that there won't be any of that under my watch, and I've already told your coach that I --"

"What?" Santana asks, leaning back and clutching the manila envelope a little tighter, because no one's supposed to know about the HGH, and especially not the nurse. And anyway, that's for the full-time bases. Santana's bottom of the pyramid now, but she's still a flyer. She'll always be a flyer, no matter what Coach says about her boobs weighing her down. Does she look fat or something? Do her boobs make her look fat? "No, I'm here for Nurse Burke. Where is she?"

The old lady rolls her eyes and turns back to the file cabinet, closing it with a brisk bang. "She's gone," the woman huffs, with way more attitude than she needs to have, considering. "Family emergency, I think. No idea when she'll be back. If she'll be back. So you're stuck with me." The woman turns around, folding her arms and glaring, and holy Jesus, what a mean old bitch. "So what is it, anyway? Condoms are still in the bowl on the desk, and if you're trying to get out of gym, then you'd better have some kind of proof that it's actually that time of the month, because I'm not just going to --"

"No!" Santana snaps, because holy shit, talk about uncalled-for. "No, I just... So that's it? She's just... She just left?"

"That's what they tell me," the lady says, and Santana's not sure why that makes her sag back against the doorframe; it just does. Because she's been working herself up all night over this, what she was gonna do, what she'd say, and now it's just -- It's not even necessary, and she kind of hates that. Being unnecessary. "Look, kiddo," the lady says, a little softer now. "Sorry if I've come off abrasive, but I work like four schools in this district; you get a little jaded, you know? But that also means that there's nothing I haven't seen, so if you want to tell me about it --"

Santana shakes her head, pulling in on herself. "No," she says, a little steadier now. Because okay, she doesn't have to have that talk with Nurse Burke, but maybe that's for the best, in the end. She never wanted to be involved in any of this in the first place, and now she's not, and that's fine. It's better than fine. It's perfect. "No, just... She was helping me. On this project. For health class. On boob implants. But it's fine, I'll just talk to Miss Holliday, I'm sure she --"

And then she just flat-out gives up and turns, and walks away.

Mr. Anderson's coming down the hall as she hurries out; he's got a little leather case in his hands, like something for shaving, and she has to wonder what's in it, but of course, she can't ask. He smiles at her as they get near each other, says "Hello, Santana," in his quiet, mild little voice.

She used to see the two of them together sometimes, him and Nurse Burke. It kind of blows her mind now, that they spent so much time together and he never figured it out. But then, even smart guys turn stupid when you shove a pretty blonde at them.

"Hey, Mr. A," she murmurs, and brushes past him, and wonders what he'll think when he gets to that nurse's office and sees a stranger there and realizes that Nurse Burke just up and bailed on him. She wonders if it'll hurt at all.

Not like it matters, in the end. And it's not like she cares.

Her part in this is over, and she couldn't be happier.

 

*

 

There's a note, at least; he finds it in his office, on his desk, once he's finished talking to their new part-time nurse (who had, if nothing else, been more than happy to let him take over Blaine's wound care -- in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if she nominates him to take care of everyone else as well). He turns the piece of paper over in his hands, contemplates it, what it might say, what it might mean. If it means anything at all.

It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. She was a colleague, a casual acquaintance and nothing more. And this is nothing more than a formality, a polite goodbye to someone who barely made a dent in her world.

And, after all, did she really mean so much to him, in the end?

Blaine is what matters. Blaine is all that matters.

He slides open the top drawer of his desk, slips the note inside, and closes it up again.

When he raises his eyes, Holly is standing in the doorway, smiling at him. "Well," she says, drawing the word out slowly. "Aren't you a sight for these sore eyes."

"Don't tell me my students have been giving you trouble, Holly," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Because even if they have, I'm not taking any of my classes back until Wednesday. So I'm afraid you'll just have to muddle through as best you can."

She shakes her head, laughing, and steps a little further into the room. "Are you kidding me?" she asks, crossing very, very slowly over to the desk. He knows that Holly's not seducing him; flirtation simply seems to be her default mode. It's just that sometimes, the effect is... Well. "Seriously, you've got those kids trained. No name switches, no buttered floors -- I think you have the only classroom in this building with absolutely no spitballs on the ceiling. Maybe the only classroom in the district." She sighs, flips her hair back over her shoulder, and perches on the edge of his desk. "It's going to be hard for me to give them up and go back to the usual heathen mobs, I'll tell you that."

Ben folds his hands on his desk and gazes up at her, all blonde hair and broad smiles, and it's still hard for him to comprehend how she can be so much more than she seems. But she is, plainly, so he takes a deep breath. "What if you didn't have to give them up?" he asks. "At least, not completely."

Holly's eyes widen; she purses her lips, a little bit. "I'm listening," she says, quietly.

"There's a... a medical issue," Ben says. "I've got a meeting with a specialist tomorrow, to finalize the treatment plans. And while I don't plan on being unable to work, it's possible that I'll be asked to... limit my activities, somewhat. I've mentioned this to Principal Figgins, and as you're fully qualified to teach up to the pre-calculus level, and that is the bulk of my classload right now --"

"This sounds serious," Holly says, but she doesn't really look surprised. Of course, Ben was never really expecting her to. She does know quite a bit about him. "This medical thing, I mean."

"It could be," Ben acknowledges. "And if it is, then I would appreciate having someone I trust ready to step in and take care of my students for me. If it comes to that."

Holly bites her lip and studies him for a long time, still perched on the corner of his desk. "I don't know," she says, quietly. "I mean, this sounds like it's gonna tie me down. I might have to buy real dishes and everything. I'm not even sure how to do that."

Ben smiles at her, because he doesn't know Holly that well, but he knows her well enough to be reasonably confident that she's just said yes. "I'm sure Blaine and Kurt would be willing to help you," he offers, leaning back in his chair.

"Blaine _and_ Kurt?" Holly asks, and leans in a little. "So it's like that, is it?"

Ben just shrugs. "It is what it is," he says. "But they're certainly close. And they both share an affinity for housewares."

Holly's eyebrows go up. "I have to say, I'm a little surprised at you," she says. "For a crazy overprotective dad, you're remarkably cool with the idea that your only son might be about to make a love connection. A love connection with an affinity for nesting, no less." She leans in a little further, almost laying down on his desk. "Unless your goal is to have someone you trust ready to step in and take care of him, too."

That takes Ben back a little bit; he tries not to react too visibly, but it's hard not to suck in a deep breath when something so blunt is coming from someone else's mouth. "My goal," he says, "is to make sure my son is happy, Holly. If Kurt makes him happy, and he seems to, I plan on encouraging that. But I'm not leaving him. And I'm not leaving McKinley. Not unless I have absolutely no other choice."

Her eyes meet his, and for just a moment, there's something there. He doesn't understand her -- he's already decided that such a thing is completely impossible. But for a moment, he has faith in her. And it's enough. "Well," she says, and pushes herself back up until she's sitting with a little more dignity. "I guess I could get used to the idea of a full semester with no fear of a beat-down. From the students, anyway."

That draws a bit of a smile from Ben, and Holly beams back at him. "So you'll do it," he says.

She just shrugs. "If you need to take the time, and if Figgins approves it," she says. "Then I'll see what I can do." She slides easily off his desk and strides back towards the door, long legs taking long steps under her short, short skirt, and he does have to admire the blatancy with which she works; he can't deny that. "Oh, and Ben?" she asks, turning back towards him.

He says nothing, regarding her with one eyebrow raised.

"You should stand up now.”

His eyebrow stays up; he stays in his chair. “And why should I do that?”he asks.

“Because,” Holly says, beaming. “I'm taking you to lunch."

 

*

 

After Hydra Station, after Ben climbed onto a boat with his father and then just... stopped, he woke up -- months later, thirty pounds lighter, and wrapped in clothing that apparently used to be his but now hung on him so loosely that he thought it must have been from Tom's closet, not that he could remember the words "clothes" or "closet" or even "Tom." His fingers were so clumsy that he couldn't even fumble the buttons of his shirt out of their holes, his arms so weak he barely even had the strength to try. But Blaine was there, his childishly chubby hands making swift work of the buttons that his father couldn't manage anymore, his sweet clear voice singing --

_catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away --_

putting Ben to bed the way Ben had once put him to bed, before Hydra Station, before his father, before the boat.

And Ben concentrated hard on finding the right words, and managed to put together the first full sentence he'd spoken in months:

"It's not your fault."

It wasn't what he'd meant to say, but it felt close, somehow. Close enough to make Blaine stop singing, stare up at his father with huge, round eyes, and then fall forward into his father's chest, clutching his shirt and sobbing, and Ben found the strength to raise his arms and wrap them around his son, his beautiful son, and hold him close.

They stayed like that for a long time.

 

*

 

Somehow -- he's still not entirely sure how -- Ben finds himself walking down the halls of McKinley with his glasses tucked into his pocket and Holly Holliday's hands covering his eyes, with her body far closer to his than he would ordinarily ever be comfortable with, pushing him along. He has to wonder at himself a little bit; he never allows himself to be this vulnerable. It's possible that he's gotten a bit soft.

"You know, Holly," he says, and wonders why he doesn't feel the need to reach for his baton, just in case. "When you said you were taking me to lunch, I rather thought we'd leave the building."

She laughs at him, and really, this should be more unnerving than it is. "Still just a poor substitute, Ben," she says, and turns him abruptly to the left.

Ben's knee buckles and he stumbles forward, reaching out to catch himself with whatever's there even as Holly's hands fall away from his eyes and clutch at his shoulders. Between the two of them, they keep him standing, but it's a near thing.

Of course, he's been told repeatedly that this could happen. That if the tumor grows, or even if it shifts, there could be pressure on the nerves. That it could become difficult to walk. That he could fall. This time, at least, he has someone to help catch him.

"Sorry, sorry," Holly says, arms still wrapped around Ben's shoulders and chest. "Sorry. You okay?"

"Fine," Ben says; he settles back on his feet, gingerly testing the strength of his left leg. It seems to be holding. Could be just the suddenness of the turn, that something twisted that shouldn't have. Perhaps he needn't worry so much yet. "I'm... I'm fine."

"Sorry," Holly says again, still wrapped around him from behind. She pats absently at his chest before pulling back, hands settling loosely on his shoulders, body no longer pressed to his, letting him catch his breath. "Um... Maybe you should open your eyes now? We're here anyway, so."

"Of course, of course." Ben opens his eyes, blinks a few times, does his best to focus on what's in front of him. "Ah, the teachers' lounge," he says, noting with some amusement that the lights inside have been turned off. He wonders if anyone inside the room is actually hiding. The mental image is... Well, actually, it's surprisingly touching.

"You know," Ben says, softly. "I've never had a surprise party before."

"First time for everything," Holly murmurs in his ear. Then she's reaching past him to open the door, and Ben barely has a moment to think about it before he's letting his eyes flutter shut again. Holly's hands immediately come up to cover them, and she nudges him gently into the darkened room. "Anyway," she says, perhaps a touch louder than she needs to. "I could've taken you out, maybe, but I couldn't exactly pay for everyone, so I --"

"Everyone?" Ben repeats, feigning bewilderment.

Holly's hands fall away from his eyes and someone flips the lights on; Ben squints his eyes tighter shut for a moment in reaction, then lets them slowly open again.

"Maybe not everyone," Holly says, as Ben fumbles his glasses out of his pocket and puts them back on. "But close enough, right?"

It is, in fact, very nearly everyone. Nancy, Eleanor, Henri, Mary Jo... And of course, Will and Emma are there, and Shannon standing at the front of the pack, holding a cake that reads _Welcome Back!_ in wobbly, uneven letters. "I was gonna bake the cake myself," Shannon says, hesitantly, "but I ran out of time, and I... Sorry the letters are so weird; that girl at the Safeway had hands like an orangutan learning the clavinova, so --"

"It's fine," Ben says, and has to struggle a little to get the words out around the lump in his throat. It's only just occurring to him now that if he had fallen, if he hadn't been able to get up again, there was a whole roomful of people on the other side of that door who would have been willing to help raise him to his feet. He has no idea how to feel about that. "I -- Thank you," he says, first to the cake, and then, looking up, to the faces all looking back at him. "Thank you," he says again. "All of you."

Out of the people missing, the most prominent is Sue. And, somehow, that's a relief. He's not entirely sure how he'd feel about letting his guard down in front of her, even for a minute.

"Thank you," he says, a third time, and then Holly starts pushing him towards a table, and he thinks he should mind it, having her pressed so close, having all of these people so close. But he really doesn't mind at all.

 

*

 

"So," Rachel says, squeezing in at the cafeteria table next to Blaine, who looks at her with enormous eyes and maybe a little alarm and honestly, she feels so silly now, thinking he was going to sabotage them. Of course, it's obvious that he hasn't been faking any of his feelings for Kurt at all -- the crutches are proof positive of that. But more than that, he's so... guileless, with his adorable bowties and his big brown eyes. Charmingly innocent, with the sort of non-threatening, boyish sexuality that would make him the perfect foil for her drama and intensity. "Blaine. Now, I wasn't entirely sure what your range would be, since it's surprisingly hard to find clips of the Warblers on YouTube, and while I don't generally give advice to our competitors, I strongly suggest that you get in touch with whatever contacts you might still have at Dalton to encourage them to up their social media presence; it's a huge asset not only for the group, but for individual performers looking to apply to top-notch musical theatre programs or possibly even for --"

"Rachel," Kurt sighs, sliding in on Blaine's other side and placing a tray on the table between the two of them. Lunch for two, and there's something so precious about Kurt finally having someone to share a tray with (not that she shares a tray with Finn, mind; she packs her own lunch) that Rachel feels a strong urge to clasp her hands and beam at them, an urge that she represses only out of deference to Kurt’s dignity. "You're scaring him. I thought we discussed that. You, scaring people."

Rachel sighs, and valiantly pushes back the urge to snap at him. Of course, Kurt is a protective person -- he was willing to beat up Jesse St. James for her; that has to count for something. And he's bound to be particularly worried about Blaine, with his crutches and his big cartoon-character eyes. Still, though. "I apologize," she says, as politely as she can. "I realize that my focus and intensity can be somewhat off-putting to those who aren't used to me. But it's just that I'm very excited to have you joining us, and to see where our musical chemistry takes us, and to that end I've compiled a list of possible duets that I think we should consider for Sectionals."

She sets the paper down in front of Blaine, and his eyes go even wider and more alarmed. He looks at Kurt like he's looking for help, and it's adorable, but also possibly a little irritating, because she's Rachel Berry, and she's right there, and how does he not see that this is the chance of a lifetime?

"Rachel," Kurt says, quietly, and she realizes that she can't see his left hand and she wonders if it's on Blaine's knee, under the table -- she's actually tempted to check for just a moment, before sanity slips back in. "Blaine's not performing with us at Sectionals.”

“What?” That actually draws a flinch from Blaine, and Rachel feels a little bit bad, so she tries to cover up the damage as best she can. “I mean, not that... But if you’re worried about your ability to... I mean, we haven’t even picked our _songs_ yet, so --”

Blaine sighs, and glances down at the table, before looking up at her shyly through his thick dark lashes, and this is such a waste of his talent and charm, and she’s going to have words with Kurt when this is all over. She realizes that yes, musical chemistry is often a sign of romantic chemistry as well, and it's not that she blames Kurt for being concerned. But she's with Finn, and even if she wasn't, Kurt's her friend, and she'd never just --

“It’s not...” Blaine shakes his head. “I'm not worried about learning the songs so much, Rachel, but -- Maybe you haven’t seen a lot of Warblers performances, but I’ve seen what New Directions can do. It’s pretty choreography-intensive. Right now, I can barely make it to my classes. I can’t --” He shrugs and looks at her with soulful hazel eyes and seriously, Kurt, this is _criminal_. “I just can’t. Not right now.”

Artie wheels up across from them, and Rachel’s eyes widen with delight. The perfect solution! God, she’s so clever sometimes it almost hurts. “So we’ll put you in a chair!”Rachel says, clapping him on the shoulder briskly. “Like Artie. And then it won’t matter -- you can do everything that we do.”

“That’s not how it works, Rachel,”Artie murmurs; Rachel ignores him.

“Admittedly, the height difference between us will be something I’ll have to overcome -- I’m not accustomed to looking down at my leading men, but --”

“Rachel,”Kurt says, as if calling her name out at the start of every sentence is the only way to get her attention (it might be the easiest way, but it’s not the _only_ way). “No. Stop. Remember how hard it was for us to learn how to deal with the chairs last year? Even if Blaine wanted to, there’s no way he’d be able to get up to Artie’s level in a week. So let’s just --”

“Wait,”Rachel says, quietly, because what Kurt’s just thrown out there is something she can’t quite comprehend. She turns to Blaine, sitting small in his chair with his head lowered, eyes on his plate. “You don’t want to?”

Blaine gives Kurt another one of those helpless looks, and Kurt doesn’t say anything but there’s the smallest shift of his shoulder and he is totally squeezing Blaine’s knee underneath the table; Rachel knows it. “It’s not that I don’t want to perform with you,”Blaine says, “it’s just --” He takes a deep breath, looks around the cafeteria, leans in a little bit closer. “I just feel like, because I’m that kid who got shot, you know, and everyone knows it, and I just... I think I’ve got enough attention right now. I don’t know if I need any more.”

Rachel blinks at him for a few seconds, because she understands that there’s good attention, of course, and then there’s bad attention (like having crude cartoon likenesses of yourself appearing in the women’s restroom, or moustaches drawn on your yearbook photo, or eggs thrown at your head), but it’s hard to understand why Blaine might object to everyone knowing that he’s a hero. Because he is a hero -- he saved Kurt, and possibly also Santana, which was not only brave but incredibly charitable of him, and surely --

“Great job, new kid,”Artie sighs, picking up a fry and dipping it into the puddle of ranch dressing on his plate. “You just broke Rachel.”

“No,”Rachel protests, a little bit feebly, but still. “No, I...” And she looks out at the rest of the cafeteria, at all the people ignoring them, at all the people shooting curious looks their way, and she thinks about all the times that she and Kurt and Artie and everyone in glee club have proven themselves to these people, shown their talent and their strength and their worth, and she thinks about what they’ve gotten in return. And she smiles at Blaine and reaches out to pat his hand. “Of course. But you owe me a duet. When you’re settled, of course.”

“Of course,”Blaine says, and smiles politely (and perhaps still a little nervously) back at her.

And it is absolutely criminal that he won’t be joining them for Sectionals, but. That just means she’ll have to work extra hard to get them through to Regionals.

Is it too much to do “Don’t Rain on My Parade”twice in a row? She’ll have to think about that.

 

*

 

“Just for the record?”Artie asks, reaching up to close Blaine’s locker for him as Kurt slides Blaine’s textbooks into his backpack. He feels a little bit weird about doing this much for the guy, not because he doesn’t like him but because he does like him, and he doesn’t want to offend him by overstepping his bounds. But, on the other hand, Blaine still can’t use his hands for anything without dropping his crutches, and that’s just as embarrassing and a lot more dangerous, so. “You do get used to Rachel. Eventually. Kind of.”

Blaine tries to shrug, his shoulders hitching up a little bit, making him wobble slightly on his crutches, and Artie can’t help but think, just for a second, that Rachel might have a point about the chair being easier for him. Not that he’d advocate it or anything, but still. “She’s fine,”Blaine says, “really, I just -- I don’t know, maybe it's not the right time. I mean -- Maybe I... Maybe I shouldn’t join glee club until I’m, you know, able to really _join_ \--”

“Absolutely not,”Kurt says, slamming his own locker shut with a surprising amount of force. “Look, Blaine, we want you with us. Even Rachel wants you there. Maybe not as much as she wants a new duet partner, but.”

“Anyway,”Artie says, wheeling away down the hallway towards the school’s one and only elevator, leaving the others to follow him, “what’re you going to do for a the next week? You can’t sign up for another class and then drop it again once we’ve gotten past sectionals.”

“I could... I could sit in with my dad, maybe, or --”

There’s a pause and then Kurt says, a little uncomfortable, “I mean... if that’s what you really wanted to do, Blaine --”and Artie stops his chair, spinning it around fast enough that when he turns around, Kurt is half in front of Blaine, like a human shield, and it almost makes Artie angrier, even though he doesn’t really know why.

It’s just -- He doesn’t understand what’s going on anymore, not really. He knows there’s more to this Blaine situation, not necessarily because of anything that Kurt or Blaine or even Finn have said or done, but because of Brittany. Because she obviously thinks that something awful’s going to happen, or she wouldn’t be messing with that stupid time machine in the first place, and maybe it’s just her imagination, probably it’s just her imagination, but every time Artie looks at Blaine, he thinks about that purple lamp and that stupid toy mouse and the faint smell of cigarette smoke, and he _hates_ that.

And he’s not going to take it out on Blaine, because he can’t believe that whatever’s going to happen is Blaine’s fault, because he just doesn’t think Brittany would be so intent on saving him if it was. But dammit, he can still be angry. He is allowed.

“No,”he says, firmly. “You’re not spending the rest of the week sitting in the back of A.P. Calculus with a bunch of kids you don’t know just because Rachel made you think that you can’t be in glee club unless you’re onstage for Sectionals. There’s no rules saying you have to compete the day you join up. Kurt and I checked. And we talked to Mr. Schue. Everyone is on board with this. So don’t you dare back out now. You’re joining glee club. Today. And that’s that.”

And then he pivots again and starts wheeling off towards the elevator without giving Blaine a chance to answer.

“Oh-kayyy,”Kurt says, drawing the word out like he’s trying to be scornful, but Artie’s pretty sure he’s more impressed than anything else. “Well. I told you we wanted you to join, Blaine. Apparently Artie wants it more than I thought he did.”

What Artie wants, more than anything, is a way to stop bad things from happening to people he likes. But he doesn’t say that out loud.

“You don’t even know me,”Blaine says, his voice quiet and maybe a little stunned. “I mean, why does it -- I’m not complaining, but you’re doing all of this for me, and you don’t -- You don’t even know me.”

Artie pulls back gently on his wheels, braking, and very slowly, very carefully turns around (so Kurt doesn’t leap in front of Blaine to protect him again). He looks up at Blaine, still wobbling a little on his crutches, and says, “I don’t need to. Welcome to glee club, Blaine.”

 

*

 

_Welcome to glee club._

It turns out that the kid with the mohawk, the one who’d danced with Santana at the wedding, is named Puck. He sits next to Blaine in geometry and tries to feed him answers, all of which are wrong, and it is, in its incredibly misguided way, one of the nicer things that anyone’s ever done for Blaine.

_Welcome to glee club._

English is with Mercedes and Tina -- they make him sit between them and proceed to spend the entire hour whispering McKinley gossip into his ears and giggling at his expressions. He thinks maybe the teacher assigned them some reading, but his head is so full of hot tubs and pregnancies and fights and cheating and love pentagons that he has absolutely no idea what it was.

_Welcome to glee club._

“I know it’s your first day,”Kurt says, apologetically, pulling one set of textbooks and folders out of Blaine’s bag and replacing them with new ones (and Kurt has color-coordinated Blaine’s notebooks, and he’s running this whole thing like a general, and Blaine is just so impressed sometimes that it’s hard to stand it), “and I know you’ve got a lot to remember as it is, but I really think Finn’s going to fail American History if he keeps forgetting to show up, and since you’re in the same class anyway, if you could just --”

“It’s okay,”Blaine says, and it is okay; in fact, it’s better than okay. Because while he’s impressed by Kurt’s management skills, and touched to the point of being overwhelmed by how kind everyone is (or at least, by how kind the glee club is; everyone else just sort of stares at him for a few seconds then pretends he isn’t there), it’s kind of a little frustrating to feel so helpless all the time. And yeah, to an extent, he kind of is. But not completely. And he doesn’t want that to be the place he carves out for himself at McKinley. He’s more than that. “Don’t worry about Finn. I’ll take care of him for you.”

And Kurt blinks for a few seconds, and then he smiles at Blaine, that little surprised, pleased smile that throws Blaine for a loop every time, because it’s obvious that Kurt doesn’t expect Blaine to remember the things they've talked about, to do things for him, to care about him, and that hurts. Because Kurt deserves to be cared for. Kurt deserves everything.

“Okay,”Kurt says, still smiling.

Blaine smiles back at him. "Okay," he says, and then turns away to go find Finn.

_Welcome to glee club._

Santana doesn’t really talk to him, even when she shows up at his locker and Kurt says she's going to take Blaine to Spanish class. She gives Blaine a little half-a-smile, and she stays at his shoulder just like the rest of them do, but she doesn't really talk to him. At all.

But when someone’s foot catches the base of one of his crutches and he almost wipes out in the middle of the hallway, she’s there, catching him and hauling him back up to his feet while simultaneously hurling threats at the guy who tripped him. Then she asks him whether he’s on a diet or whether it’s his elven heritage that makes him so slender, and then goes into a short diatribe about hobbits that reveals a far deeper knowledge of the _Lord of the Rings_ novels than Blaine would have suspected. Then she implies that he's related to Rachel, and he's pretty sure it's supposed to be insulting, but it's almost sweet at the same time, even if he couldn't say why.

Then, when he's got his crutches under him again, she goes silent again, and stays that way all the way to Mr. Schuester's classroom.

_Welcome to glee club._

He obviously can’t take gym, so he takes home ec instead.

He’s pretty sure that he’s the only one who thinks it’s a good idea.

Admittedly, when he walks into the room and sees the bolts of red calico on the wall, he’s not sure it’s such a good idea either. It’s just that by then, he’s committed. So he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and keeps going, crutching through the center aisle down to the very back table, with Quinn Fabray hovering behind him the entire time.

(He glances over at the bolts of red fabric just one more time, after he’s gotten settled but before class has really started, and he has to close his eyes again. This time, he doesn’t open them until he feels Quinn’s hand come to rest gently on top of his, soft and comforting. The first thing he does when he opens his eyes is to smile at her.

She smiles back.)

_Welcome to glee club._

He's a little surprised that Kurt isn't sitting next to him on the risers in the choir room, that it's Quinn on his left side and Mercedes on his right.

Maybe surprised isn't the best word.

Maybe _hurt_ would be a little bit better.

Admittedly, it's not like he hasn't seen Kurt all day -- their lockers are right next to each other, and they sat with each other at lunch, but still. This is the only class they share; it's the only time he's not in a room full of virtual strangers, and he just doesn't understand --

But then he sees his father trailing into the room after Mr. Schuester, standing by the door, and he realizes that this is part of Kurt's plan, somehow, and he takes a deep breath in, and he lets it out slowly, and he trusts.

"Guys," Mr. Schuester says, pulling everyone's attention towards him. "I'm sure that, by now, you've all noticed that we've got a new student in our midst." And just like that, everyone's attention snaps back to Blaine, and he almost wants to hide, but Mercedes takes his hand and Quinn rubs at his shoulder, and he lifts his chin and tries to get through it. "Now usually we ask that our new members introduce themselves to us with a song --" and here Blaine starts to panic a little, because he sang bits of things when he and Kurt were working out the wedding playlist but he hasn't really sung since -- "but Kurt has asked to do the honors and, under the circumstances, I agreed that might be the best. So. Kurt?"

Then Kurt is stepping down off the risers to stand in front of the group, and Blaine realizes that he's probably going to lose it in front of all these people, and the best he can hope for is that someone has tissues for him.

Kurt's eyes meet his, soft, beautiful, and Blaine swallows hard. "Hi," Kurt says, softly.

"Hi," Blaine replies.

Someone giggles.

"So I had this speech," Kurt says, hands knotting together nervously in front of him, "and it was a really good speech, honestly; I mean, I've been writing my Tony acceptance speech for years, so I've had a lot of practice. But this speech... See, I couldn't really think of a way to say what I wanted to say, without..." He catches himself, shakes his head, smiles a little. "So I decided to just let the song speak for me," he finishes, and looks over to where Puck is picking up an acoustic guitar, slinging the strap over his shoulder, settling himself on a stool. There's a look, and a nod, and then Puck starts playing, the tune surprisingly delicate.

Blaine swallows hard, then swallows again, and Kurt hasn't even started singing yet, but then he does, and _oh_.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly  
All your life  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise -- 

Blaine has just long enough to wonder if this song isn't maybe a little too appropriate, before movement at the back of the room catches his eye. His father is opening the door, letting someone in, and it isn't someone; it's --

"Oh my God," Blaine whispers, the words lost underneath the sound of Kurt's voice, floating sweetly above the Warblers' harmonizing vocals. The Warblers, still in uniform, filing into the choir room because they're there for him, there to say goodbye to him, and he doesn't know how to deal with this, he really doesn't.

_All your life  
You were only waiting for this moment to be free._

He has his wits about him just enough to notice when the New Directions chime in, the girls' voices rising to soar with the tenors, the boys' voices heavy with the baritones and basses, and Kurt's voice, so clear and pure and distinct even amongst all the others that it takes his breath away, and it's so much, so much, and all that keeps him from losing himself entirely is Mercedes' hand holding his, Quinn rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, Wes's dark eyes steady on his, and there in the back, his father watching over it all. His father nods at him, smiling, and Blaine tries to smile back but he's crying, a little because he's saying goodbye but also a little because he's saying hello, and it's just so much.

It's so much.

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._

_Welcome to glee club._

 

*

 

"Dad?" Blaine calls, and Ben frowns, pushing his chair back from the kitchen table. Blaine's been very insistent about being self-reliant since before the wedding -- he handles his own bathing, dresses himself, does everything but change his own bandages. But there's that note in Blaine's voice now, that sort of... _need_ , Ben supposes, and while Blaine's proven himself perfectly capable of getting ready for bed on his own...

Ben worries.

But when he steps into Blaine's room, his son is already in bed with the lights out -- Ben can just make out the shape of him, supine on the bed with his left leg bent at the knee and propped up with a pillow to keep him from being too uncomfortable, arms folded over the blankets. "Blaine?" he asks, quietly, and wonders if he's hearing things.

"Dad," Blaine replies, voice very soft, very young. "Would you... Just for a little while. Could you sit with me?"

"Of course," Ben says, and crosses immediately to the bed, settling himself against the headboard. Blaine's washed his gel out, could never sleep with it in, and when Ben strokes his fingertips lightly through his son's dark curls, Blaine shifts, angling himself towards his father. Honestly, Ben's not sure why he's surprised; they've been doing this a lot lately -- that night in the hospital and then the one after that as well, and then again after Kurt and Finn came to give their family's decision. And he imagines they would have been in the same position Saturday after the wedding, and Sunday as well, if Kurt hadn't already been here.

What was it Holly had accused him of? _Your goal is to have someone you trust ready to step in and take care of him, too._ Which, of course, is not the case at all. Ben's goal is, as it has always been, to find a way to get free of the Island, so that he can raise his son in the (relative) peace and safety of the outside world. He does not want -- he would never want -- to leave his son for any length of time.

But he is a pragmatic person, and as such, he recognizes the importance of having a backup plan. Granted, he would prefer that the backup plan not be a sixteen year-old boy, but. Needs must, and all.

"I miss sleeping on my side," Blaine murmurs, eyes fluttering open for just a moment; Ben chuckles, still drawing his fingers gently through Blaine's hair in the way that's always lulled him to sleep the fastest.

"You could, you know," he suggests, scratching lightly at Blaine's scalp. "I'm sure we could arrange it so you're more-or-less comfortable."

Blaine frowns a little, his eyebrows drawing together, and doesn't reply.

"Or not," Ben adds, and goes back to combing his fingers through Blaine's curls.

The little crease between Blaine's eyebrows smooths itself out again. He's not quite asleep, not yet; Ben knows him too well to be fooled, knows all his son's tells by now, so he keeps letting Blaine's hair slide between his fingertips, trying to lull him. After a few moments, he even starts humming, and Blaine's lips curve up in a smile.

"Kurt sang that to me," he murmurs, eyes still shut. "Said he learned it from his mom."

It almost feels like it should remind Ben of something. Like he should be able to hear Annie's sweet childish voice singing the words along with him. But there's nothing there -- just a brief afterimage of an empty rocking chair, a whistling sound, and he shudders and stops trying to remember.

Blaine tips his head in Ben's direction, though his eyes are still closed when he asks, "Did you learn it from her? Like Kurt did?"

"Of course," Ben says, and doesn't even feel guilty for lying. Blaine would only worry anyway; he hates the holes in his father's memory, blames himself for them although it's not his fault. "Of course I did."

Blaine smiles sleepily, relaxing into the mattress.

Ben keeps stroking his son's hair, keeps humming to him, but doesn't let himself sing.

_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket --_

 

*

1980

 

(But before Hydra Station, before Ben woke up, unable to even raise his arms to undress himself, before he forced his rusted voice to speak for the first time in months --

(Before all that, there was this:)

Mr. Horace was in the living room with his dad; there were beer cans scattered around them. Mr. Horace was crying, hiccuping into his dad's shoulder, and his dad was awkwardly hugging back. "This is my fault," Mr. Horace was saying. "If I'd been there -- I should've been there; I should've --"

"It wasn't your fault," Ben's dad said, and he looked right at Ben when he said it, and Ben didn't need his father to say whose fault it was. He already knew.

_Kinda hard to celebrate on the day you killed your ma_ , his father had told him, laying on the couch with a DHARMA beer clutched in his hands, and just like that, all the warmth that Ben had carried with him from Mr. Pace's house went right out the window. The same thing his dad had been telling him for years -- that Ben had been born a killer, that his very first victim was his own mother, who died so Ben could be born.

But it wasn't Ben's fault she was gone. He'd never asked to be born, he'd never... He'd never wanted this life. It just happened to him. But he hadn't wanted it, and he hadn't done anything to deserve it, and if he could change things, he would. But he couldn't. And that wasn't his fault either. It wasn't.

But he couldn't say that, not with so many beer cans scattered around, so he just slipped out the door when his dad wasn't looking, and headed off into the night. He wasn't sure where he was going, just --

Everything had always been his fault, ever since he was a baby. And it wasn't fair that he'd had to start that way; he hadn't deserved it. And Miss Amy's baby; he didn't deserve it either.

Someone needed to tell him so.

As Ben neared the infirmary, he saw some people standing on the porch, talking. One of them was a little away from the others, near the stairs. Tall, thin -- Ben thought maybe it was a man, or at least a teenager. He had something cradled in his arms; it must've been Miss Amy's baby. The man, who might've been a teenager, was singing, his voice high and sweet and clear:

_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for your rainy day --_

Ben climbed the stairs and sat down at the very top, near the man who might've been a teenager, and listened.

It was a strange thing to think, but it felt like he was being forgiven.  



	2. The Shape of Things to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Blaine's second day at McKinley, and everything's already starting to fall apart.

_He's not totally sure where he is, and he's mostly okay with that. Because there's something -- it's not anything he can hold onto, not here, floating, still half-asleep..._

(you were gone)

_But he knows he doesn't want to remember what happened. What he did. It's better here, warm, with the sound of the waves and the crackle of the fire and the feeling of someone (not his father; the fingers are longer, slimmer, move more tentatively) stroking his hair. He likes it here. He doesn't want to leave._

_But his father's shaking his foot, calling him. "Blaine... Blaine..."_

He blinks his eyes open, squints down at the blurred figure of his dad, sitting at the foot of the bed. It's dim in the room, still early, and Blaine groans and turns his face into his pillow as best he can without jostling his injured leg. It hurts. Everything hurts, even his armpits (especially his armpits), and he's still so tired, and honestly if it wasn't for Kurt, he wouldn't even be thinking about --

"Don't tell me you're already dreading your new school," his dad says, and he's trying to sound teasing, but mostly he just sounds worried. He always sounds worried, though, these days. Blaine kind of hates that.

"'Mnot," he mumbles, because it won't stop his dad worrying, but maybe it'll ease it a little. "Just. Gimme minute?"

His father sighs and pats at his foot through the blankets. "I'll give you five," he says, easing himself up off the bed. "But no more than that."

Blaine knows he could have all the minutes, if he only asked for them. Or, at least, he could have the rest of the day, or at least until his dad's doctor's appointment, because he knows his dad won't want to leave him alone in the house, but -- But he won't ask that much, because he can't. "'Kay," he says, and when he hears the door shut again, he gingerly rolls over to his side, even though it makes the pain in his leg flare up (and the pain in his back, and in his hands and in his wrists and in his armpits --) Because this is something he's missed, curling up on his side and feeling the smoothness of the pillow against his cheek, burying his face in it and blocking out the light and breathing in the smell of fabric softener.

Although that's not what his pillow smells like today, not really. Instead it smells sort of like herbs, like a garden, like something clean and fresh and --

He breathes in deep, lets it out slow, and realizes that it smells like Kurt. Because Kurt's head was resting on this pillow yesterday morning; Kurt was here, a leg thrown over Blaine's and an arm wrapped around his waist and Blaine had felt safe, protected. Happy. And now Kurt's back in his own bed, but there's just this little piece of him left behind, the way Blaine's pillow smells like him, and Blaine hugs the pillow close, rubs his cheek on it, and breathes it in.

Kurt was in his dream, maybe. The fingers in his hair, petting and soothing; he thinks those might've been Kurt's. Which makes him a little uneasy, somehow, because even though Kurt was in his dream, there was that something else, wasn't there? That something awful around the edges, that something he didn't want to remember but couldn't forget, that something --

He takes another deep breath, and then another, and then pushes himself slowly up until he's sitting, the covers tangled around his hips. Because his dad would let him sleep all day if he asked for it, but Blaine can't do that. Because Kurt's at McKinley.

And Blaine needs to be with Kurt.

 

*

 

Ben has never been entirely sure what to make of time. He feels, sometimes, that it's far more fickle than people would like to believe, less a steady progression of moments ticking down like a metronome, and more... well. Slippery. It rushes, it crawls, it spirals. It trips a man up and ensnares him.

He's caught in its net now, waiting.

_And Lord, how slow the moments go._

He pulls Juliet's note out of his desk drawer again, smoothes the creases with his finger. There is, of course, absolutely nothing in it that will tell him what to expect today, what his doctor will have to say, how bad the prognosis will be. Nothing about the way Ben's leg buckled on him yesterday, whether it was simply a one-time thing or actually the shape of things to come. No relief or confirmation of the simmering fear deep in Ben's gut, the worry that his ability to protect his son is rapidly slipping away from him. After all, Juliet was the school nurse, not a spinal surgeon, and even if she had been, she never knew more than that there was a tumor and it was benign. There is no answer waiting for him on this piece of paper, no reassurance or apology left in her familiar handwriting. He doesn’t need to read the note to know that.

But as long as he keeps the note closed, keeps it unread, he can pretend.

He smoothes the creases again.

A moment later, there's a knock at the door, and although Ben is too well-trained to jolt at the sound of it, he can't help the quickening of his heartbeat, although he flatters himself that his voice is steady when he calls out, "Come in."

The door creaks open, and Burt Hummel steps inside -- flannel shirt, baseball cap, and all. "Not interrupting anything, am I?"

Ben slips the note back into its drawer, folds his hands on his desk, smiles up at Burt. "Not at all," he says, and enjoys the way Burt's gaze lingers on the corner of the desk, like he could read the note through the thick wood. Ben hasn't come close to having Burt Hummel pegged -- he thinks that might take longer than he has, to be quite honest -- but he's aware the man's a lot shrewder than he lets on. "Must be a slow day at the garage, for you to have the free time to come out here."

Burt just shrugs, slipping easily into one of the chairs in front of Ben's desk. "Kurt's still keeping me on light duty," he says. "Which -- honestly, I feel fine. Not a thing wrong with me. But the kid worries, and I hate doing that to him, and -- Well. You know how it is." And Burt looks at Ben, one eyebrow quirked, that little rueful smile. “Or you will, anyway. Some kind of doctor’s appointment today, I understand?”

The relief that washes over Ben at that moment is as unexpected as it is overpowering, and he laughs; he can't help it. And it's strange, really, because he doesn't do this; he doesn't show weakness. He can't. Once people see it, then they start to plan their attacks, figuring out how to work their way through his defenses and get him where he lives. To get to his son. Blaine is only safe when Ben is strong; that's how it's always been.

But Burt...

Ben doesn't understand Burt. But he's seen Burt with his son, how careful he is, how protective, and he knows that Burt understands him.

It's a very strange thing, being understood.

"I don't suppose I can pretend it just slipped my mind," Ben says, as lightly as he can.

Burt shrugs again, turns his attention to the pictures on Ben's desk. Ben wonders, briefly, how many pictures of Kurt are up in the office of Burt's garage. They could have a competition, see who has the most. "Look, it’s not like I don’t get it,” Burt says, picking a photo up and studying it. “You’re the guy who can take on everyone and everything. That’s who you have to be. Because if you’re not --” He glances up at Ben, glances back down at the photo. “But I really don’t think one guy’s gonna be enough this time around. Not if we’re gonna keep everyone safe.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Ben says, watching Burt’s big hands, so gentle when they hold the photo of Ben’s son. Trustworthy. Or, at least, Ben hopes the man is trustworthy, because if he's not then Ben and Blaine are in serious trouble. “Are you... I was under the impression that you stayed because you thought your family was safer here. That Kurt was safer here.”

"I think,” Burt says, looking up and meeting Ben’s eyes, “that a lot of people are safer here. And I’m gonna do my best to keep it that way. But. I can’t do it unless you give me a little help." Burt finally sets the photo back down, turned to face Ben -- it's Ben's favorite, the one with Blaine smiling, happy, safe, surrounded by friends. Of course it is. "For the record," Burt continues. "I'm not saying I'm coming to your doctor's appointment with you, or that I want you calling as soon as it's done. You're gonna want that time with Blaine, and I completely understand that. But. Maybe, in a couple of days, you could come to dinner? Carole's been working on something; she won't tell me what it is, but she keeps saying she’s a genius, and I'm taking her word for it.”

“Well, if Carole says it, then it must be true,” Ben says, and wonders at himself, because he’s fairly certain he believes that. It’s hard to fathom how quickly he’s learned to trust this family. He almost wonders --

_She looked for you_ , Finn had told him. Of course she had. Annie’d been sweeter and kinder and more trustworthy than anyone he’d ever met, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t tough in her own way. She had a certain dogged persistence -- Ben considers himself a skeptic, but if anyone in Heaven could still move things on Earth, it would be Annie.

Burt studies him for a long time, as if reading his thoughts, and then nods. “You know,” he says, pushing up to his feet. “For the longest time, all I knew about that Island was that that was where Annie met her best friend. She told me the rest, eventually, but even then... It all came back to you.”

Ben pushes his glasses up, nods again. He doesn’t smile; touched as he is, it’s still... Part of him had always hoped to find her again. He never imagined it would be romantic, not really -- he knew he’d find her with a husband, with children, but. And after all, they had been friends above all else. It would have been nice to see her again, even just as a friend.

But, he supposes, he’s come closer than he really deserves.

“After Sectionals,” he says. “We’ll... Blaine and I, we’ll come to dinner. And we’ll talk.”

Burt nods, and touches the brim of his hat, and leaves.

 

*

 

His first experience with the New Directions was something close to magical -- the way they welcomed him, how warm everyone was, how friendly. He felt almost safe. Almost loved, even.

And maybe they still love him, or at least like him. But he's starting to get the feeling that they don't always really like each other. Even when they're supposed to.

And they're not at all shy about saying so, and that makes Blaine cringe in his seat.

"I'm just saying," Finn says, craning his neck to look back at Rachel, who's glaring down at him with shocking intensity. Blaine's seen scary people before, of course, and some of them were a lot scarier than Rachel, but. Not all of them. "I mean, there's more important things than winning Sectionals right now, you know?" He glances back at Blaine, who immediately shrinks into himself, trying to make himself smaller because now Rachel's looking at him and okay, _no_. No, he does not want to stand between Rachel and her second Sectionals win. Not at all.

"So what you're saying is that we're going to lose," Sam says, from the top of the risers. He's trying to hide how angry he sounds, but he's not very good at it, and at least this time it's not directed at Blaine but still. He's not comfortable with this. He's not comfortable at all.

Kurt takes Blaine's hand and squeezes gently, and it helps a little, but not enough.

"If Quinn and I do the duet, then we're going to lose," Sam continues, still angry, and Blaine grips Kurt's hand a little tighter. "That's what you're saying."

"No, I'm not --" Finn goes all fish-mouthed for a second, lips opening and closing with no words coming out.

"Okay," Kurt says, and lets his other hand settle on top of Blaine's too. "Okay, guys, I really do appreciate what it feels like to want a solo, trust me, but I just don't think this is worth --"

"I thought you guys were great, in the duets thing." And it's kind of irritating, how Finn just jumped in like Kurt wasn't even talking, but at least he's complimenting Sam and Quinn, so that's something? "I did. That's why I voted for you. And so did Rachel," he adds, twisting to glare at her again.

Why isn't Mr. Schue doing anything? Isn't there a gavel, or something he could -- or he could at least say something, or yell something, or _do_ something --

Rachel turns pink. "Finn Hudson, those votes were private, and this is a _serious_ \--"

"Actually," Santana drawls, like this is absolutely nothing new to her, and maybe it's not. Maybe she's used to this. Of course, Blaine's used to guns and she's not, so he supposes he doesn't get to judge, but it still just seems -- it's so chaotic, and angry. He doesn't understand. "Finnocence has a point about the duets. Granted, I still think that Team Diva had the best duet, bar none --" She nods at Mercedes, and Mercedes nods back at her, " -- but Ken and Barbie did bring the charm offensive pretty hardcore. And since we're going up against a bunch of adorable old people and Tiny Tim's fresh-faced prep school boys' choir, we could stand to pour a little extra sugar on this one. I say we give it to the blondies."

It's probably the nicest thing anyone's said so far, and Blaine's a little surprised that it's coming from Santana.

Apparently, he's not the only one.

"Not that I'm not flattered by your support," Quinn says, leaning forward with one hand cupping her chin, "but are you saying this because you mean it, or are you just feeling magnanimous because you get to sing Amy Winehouse for a competition solo?"

Santana just shrugs. "Never said I couldn't be bought. Look, my point is, we're all --"

Then Brittany looks up, her cheeks pale, eyes round and alarmed, and Blaine thought this whole situation couldn't get any worse, but for some reason he feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end when he sees that look on Brittany's face. "Wait, is it still Tuesday?" she asks, sounding a little panicked.

"It's fine, Britt," Santana says, and she sounds casual, but Blaine's dad does that a lot, too -- he sounds casual but he isn't, not really -- and Blaine isn't fooled. "You changed your motocross schedule, remember? Practice is on Thursdays, at five."

"This isn't right," Brittany says. Then she turns and looks at Blaine, eyes focused on him in a way that sends a shiver down his spine. Because for one second, he's absolutely sure that she _sees_ him, sees him the way that no one ever does. No one except for people from the Island, of course. They always see him. "This isn't right. I have to --"

And then she's practically flying down the risers, hurrying out of the room, leaving everyone momentarily stunned into speechlessness.

"Okay," Mr. Schuester says, blinking, and maybe he's going to say something now, maybe he's going to _do_ \-- "Well. That was --"

"I'll go talk to her," Santana says, grabbing her bag and Brittany's, but Artie's on the ground level, and he's halfway to the door before Santana can even stand.

He pauses, turning to glance over his shoulder, looking up at Santana. "I got this," he says, and he doesn't sound certain at all, but Santana still sinks back down into her seat and watches him roll quietly out of the room.

Blaine clings to Kurt's hand and hopes that maybe the worst is over. That maybe now that Brittany's gotten upset and run out of the room (even if it kind of doesn't seem like it's anything to do with the argument at all, like it was connected to something else, like maybe it's something to do with Blaine), everyone will come to their senses and have a calm, rational discussion about things.

"Well," Rachel says, primly. "I suppose that's not really surprising. Given Brittany's extreme reluctance to force comparisons with her namesake, Britney Spears, it's obvious that pushing her into the spotlight on a competition stage is still too much for her to --"

"Please," Santana says, rolling her eyes. "Like you could ever fill her shoes, Dwarf. I mean, even if she wasn't a foot taller than you, there's still no way you could ever --"

"Tina could," Mike suggests, and almost shrinks back in his seat when Santana turns her disbelieving glare on him. But then he straightens, pulls himself forward a little. "I mean... If we _had_ to change the number, we've... We've danced together before, and she's..."

"Not as good," Tina says, quietly, and Mike stares down at his lap. "Not at dancing, anyway. But thank you, Mike. That's really sweet." She reaches out and takes Mike's hand, and Mike smiles at her, and it's a nice moment and Blaine already knows it's not going to last.

"I'm not saying we should have someone else fill in for Brittany," Rachel says, her voice pitching up, shrill and sort of grating and maybe even a little desperate. "I'm not saying that at all. But if she really doesn't want to do the number, Mr. Schue, then perhaps we'd better think of something else right now before it's too late for us to --"

"No!" Mr. Schuester snaps it out so sudden and loud that Blaine actually jumps, making his chair shuffle a few inches from its spot; Kurt takes one hand away from Blaine's to reach out and pat at his shoulder. "We're not changing the setlist, and I'm not reassigning anyone's parts, and that's final, Rachel. And we are done discussing this."

Blaine stares at Mr. Schuester for a second, like the rest of the class. Then he reaches down beside his chair, picks up his crutches, and very carefully pushes himself up until he's standing. "Blaine?" Kurt asks, already climbing to his feet.

There are a million and one things that Blaine wants to say -- about how they never did discuss it because this wasn't a discussion, just a fight; about how it's not even a fair fight now that Brittany's not here and can't speak for herself; about how it doesn't even matter anyway, because there are so many things that are happening right now that are so much more important, things that would terrify every single one of them if they knew --

But he can't say any of it, so he just turns and crutches his way to the door, which Kurt has to open for him, which kind of ruins the dramatic exit Blaine is making, not that he cares. It's been a long day and his arms are shaking and all he wants to do is go home but he can't because he's still got his dad's doctor's appointment after school and should he maybe just pre-emptively call in sick for tomorrow? But he can't do that either, because his father's picking at least some of his classes back up, which means he has to be here, which means Blaine has to --

He takes a deep breath and comes to a stop as the door swings shut behind them, head hanging, and Kurt's hand immediately settles on the small of his back. "I have to say I'm impressed," Kurt says, gently. "That was a pretty good storm-out for your second day of glee club. Get a lot of practice in with the Warblers?"

Blaine shakes his head, letting himself sag for a moment, and it makes his crutches dig in to the sore spots under his arms, and he can't even bring himself to care. "Warblers don't storm out," he sighs, and Kurt rubs his back a little. "It's funny -- I mean, we don't even have a faculty adviser. We have a senior council, and yeah they're upperclassmen, but they're still just... But this wouldn't happen at Dalton. This would never happen at Dalton."

Kurt doesn't say anything, and Blaine realizes too late that he probably shouldn't have said that. "Kurt," he says. "I --"

But Kurt just keeps rubbing gently at Blaine's back. "You're allowed to miss them," he says. "You know that, right?"

And now it's Blaine's turn to be unable to answer, and Kurt just sighs and lets his hand drift lightly up Blaine's spine until he's gripping his shoulder. "It's okay," Kurt says, thumb pressing in to the spot where Blaine's neck meets his shoulder. "I know that New Directions isn't like the Warblers -- we don't have nice blazers, for one thing. And we shout a lot. A lot. But the good thing is, we're all really used to people storming out. So you won't be in any trouble when you come back. If... If you want to come back. You don't have to."

Blaine sucks in a deep gulp of air, lets it out slowly. The thing is, he really kind of thinks he does have to come back. He's not totally sure why; if he's trying to impress Kurt's friends or if it's just that singing is basically the one thing he can carry with him from Dalton or if it's something else entirely, but... He has to. "Just let me catch my breath," he says.

Artie and Brittany reappear about ten seconds later, and slip past Kurt and Blaine into the choir room -- Brittany looks a bit puzzled, but otherwise cheerful again; Artie is a little grimmer, although he doesn't say anything. Blaine wonders if maybe he and Kurt should follow them in, but Kurt doesn't move, so Blaine doesn't either. He stays with Kurt, and he breathes.

"How'd you sleep last night?" Kurt asks, softly; his hand slips back down, goes back to rubbing at Blaine's back.

_the sound of waves slapping sand, smell of a bonfire, blaine's head is on someone's lap and someone is petting his hair: long thin fingers, more tentative than his father's, like they've never done this before; and blaine sort of wants to know who it is but he knows that if he wakes up all the way, he'll have to remember everything, everything that's happened, everything he did, and --_

"I slept okay," he says. "I mean, I had some weird dreams, but with the painkillers and everything, it's probably just... Just dreams. That's all."

Kurt's lips are a little pursed, but his hand is warm on Blaine's back, and he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly and whatever he was going to say, he lets that go, too. Instead, he says, "I've been meaning to -- I mean, I know we haven't talked about it since, but that doll, the one my mom made, it’s in my bag; I’ve been meaning to --"

“Kurt,” Blaine says, because he doesn’t mean to cut Kurt off but he can’t let him -- “That’s... Your mom gave that to you; I can’t --”

“But it’s your dad,” Kurt protests, “and I know how much --”

“ _Kurt_.” Then Blaine forces himself to take a deep breath and think for a second, because otherwise they’re just going to go around in circles for an hour and that’s not good for anyone. "Look, I -- You may not understand it in the way I would want you to understand -- which is fine, and you’ve got every right to be skeptical -- but I also know that you know what it means when I say my dad’s with me, even... Even when he’s not.”

“Oh, Blaine,” Kurt says, a little miserably, his hand falling away from Blaine’s back. “I don’t think you’re lying, I just --”

“I know, I know,” Blaine says, and wishes he could reach out, but he can’t let go of his crutches long enough for that. “It's not about that; I just need you to listen to me, okay? But, like, _really_ listen."

And it takes Kurt a moment to catch on, but Blaine can see it when he does -- his lips part a little, and his eyelashes flutter. He looks back over his shoulder just once, as if checking to make sure they're alone, and then he finally reaches out and very gently rests his hands over Blaine’s where they hold tight to his crutches. “Okay,” he says, and Blaine feels how hard his heart is beating, clenching tight and then releasing so abruptly in his chest. “I’m listening.”

Blaine bites his lip and looks up at Kurt, and thinks, _Courage_.

 

*

 

Kurt’s dad raises an eyebrow at him when he walks into the living room; Kurt realizes just a little bit too late that he’s still got Margaret Thatcher Dog tucked under his arm. Just -- he’d only just found her when Blaine had called, and then holding on to her made sense, and now...

“That bad, huh?” his dad asks, and Kurt sighs and sinks into the couch next to him, Margaret Thatcher Dog firmly ensconced on his lap.

“They want to operate,” he says, and he feels like maybe he should feel badly that he’s telling his dad everything before Mr. Anderson gets the chance to, but. He doesn’t think Blaine quite gets it, how _scary_ it is to hear all these things again, after his mom, after -- “As quickly as possible, except it’s not happening until Christmas break which doesn’t seem that fast to me, and I asked Blaine and he promised it wasn’t his dad’s idea, his dad wants to get it over with too, but there’s something with the surgeon and I just --”

His hands clench tight around Margaret Thatcher Dog’s soft plush body, and his dad wraps his arm around him.

“And I guess they thought it was around the bone, or they made it sound like it was around the bone, but actually it’s in his spinal cord, like _in_ it and I don’t -- It’s encapsulated? So it should be easy to remove? But it’s in his spinal cord, Dad. It’s _in_ it. And what if they mess up, or something goes wrong, or they --”

His dad pulls him in tight and pets his hair and says, “Easy, kiddo. Easy.”

“And Blaine’s so scared,” Kurt says, his voice barely a whisper. “He’s not -- His dad must’ve been pretty close by, because he was trying not to -- You could tell that he was trying, but he’s so scared.”

And his dad doesn’t point out that Kurt’s scared, too, because it’s obvious anyway. And if his _dad_ is scared, then he doesn’t say anything about it. He just holds Kurt close and pets his hair.

"And I just... If someone comes," he says. "Like Karofsky came. And if Blaine couldn't walk, and if his dad couldn't walk, then they wouldn't... They wouldn't be able to..."

"I know, kiddo," his dad says. And then, "I'm workin' on it, okay? I promise you. We are not just gonna sit by and let something happen to those two. We're gonna figure this out, and we're gonna keep them safe. And do you know how I know that?"

Kurt manages a watery smile, tucked safely against his dad's side. "Because nobody pushes the Hummels around," he says.

"That's right," his dad says, and squeezes him tighter. "Nobody."

"But what if..." Kurt takes a deep breath and looks up at his dad. "What if they don't want us keeping them safe? What if they change their mind, or --"

"Nobody pushes the Hummels around," his father repeats. "Not even the Andersons." He even manages a smile, but it drops after a few seconds. "Anyway," he adds, "Ben's not changing his mind. Not as long as he thinks Blaine is safer with us around. And Blaine's not changing his mind if he thinks his dad is safer with us around. Whatever it takes, whatever we have to do --they'll do it. For each other. Just like you and I would do anything for each other."

"Right," Kurt says, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. "Right. Of course."

"With that in mind," Burt says, loosening his grip on Kurt (but not letting him go). "How would you feel about a little house-hunting tomorrow after school? I've got a couple of places in mind -- nice big ones, plenty of bedrooms. For guests, you know."

Kurt rests his head on his father's shoulder, and holds Margaret Thatcher Dog close, and takes deep cleansing breaths to calm himself down. "Of course," he says. "Sounds good, Dad."

But his dad doesn't let him go, and Kurt doesn't pull away from him.

The thing is, Kurt's not sure how to feel about most of what he's been told -- the Islands and Hostiles and dreams and rooms and airplanes falling out of the sky. Some of it can almost be explained, but then some of it really can't be, and it's hard for him, believing in things that he can't explain.

But he doesn't need explanations for things like tumors, and surgical resection, and radiation therapy, and complications. He already knows just what those things are and what they mean and what they can do to a person.

And he _hates_ it.

 

 

*

 

“I see Vincent is joining us tonight,” his father says, quietly, and that’s all he says, but Blaine knows he’s worried.

Blaine hasn’t slept with Vincent since -- For a long time. He used to: right after the first time he had the dream, back in Tustin, and then all the way up until they moved to Fort Wayne, when the dream finally stopped coming. But when the dream did stop coming, Blaine put Vincent away and never brought him out again. Not even when he started at Dalton, and his dad was still in Indiana and the two of them had never been so far apart and Blaine couldn’t answer his phone in class and he spent every lunch period in the grove of trees outside the school, calling his dad just so they could hear each other breathing. It's been a long time since Blaine needed Vincent, and he knows they both thought he might never need him again.

But here he is, now, and Blaine knows his father is worried about that.

So he musters a weak smile, and pets Vincent’s fuzzy head, and tugs lightly at his remaining ear. “Well,” he says. “Vincent’s moving in with Kurt tomorrow. So I thought... Since it’s his last night here, and everything.”

_“If you could give me something of yours, to hold onto, and then maybe I could give you something of mine, and then we could -- In case something happened. That way, we wouldn't be apart. Even if... Even if we were.”_

_"You would want that," Kurt repeats, soft, a little breathy. He looks maybe like he's about to cry, but he doesn't let go of Blaine's hands. "You would want to... To be with me. No matter what."_

_Blaine has no idea what Kurt means by "be with me" -- it could just be friendship; it could be... something more. But it doesn't matter either way. He wants that. Whatever Kurt will give him, he wants that. "Yes," he whispers. "If you... If that was something you would want."_

_Kurt's answer, when it comes, doesn't come in words. He steps a little closer into Blaine's space, slips his arms around Blaine's waist, and hugs him with peculiar gentleness, bending to rest his head against Blaine's shoulder. Blaine can't hug him back without losing his crutches; the best he can do is tip his cheek down to rest against Kurt's hair, breathing the scent of Kurt's product, clean and fresh and faintly herbal, like a garden._

“Moving in with Kurt,” his father repeats, softly. Blaine waits for his father to press a little more, to ask him why, but then he sighs and says, “Well,” and his hand rests on top of Blaine’s, the both of them petting at Vincent’s head just exactly like he was a real dog.

Blaine squeezes his eyes tight shut again and tries very, very hard not to think about what it would feel like to have whatever Kurt gives him and _not_ have his father there to see it and comment on it and embarrass him about it. What it would feel like if his father went into surgery and never came out again and left him all alone.

“It’s okay,” his father tells him. “I’m scared, too. But we’ll get through this, Blaine, just like we’ve gotten through everything else. I promise you. We’ll get through this. Together.”

“Together,” Blaine echoes, quietly, and his father stops petting Vincent, starts running his fingers through Blaine’s curls instead. And this is how Blaine knows that it wasn’t his father playing with his hair in the dream, the one he had last night. His father has a way of doing things -- he pushes the hair away from Blaine’s forehead, lets the curls wrap around his fingers, tugs gently. Whoever was playing with Blaine’s hair in his dream last night had never done so before. They were inventing their own technique, on the fly.

Kurt would have to do that, of course.

If it was Kurt. He doesn’t know for sure.

There’s a part of him that wants to know, that wants to go back and figure it out, but there’s also a part of him that --

_You were gone._

He wants Kurt to be with him. He's starting to think he always will. But he wants his father, too.

“I’m not leaving you,” his father says, almost like he's reading Blaine's mind. But he's not, of course. If anything, he's talking to himself. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Blaine rolls over, away from Kurt’s pillow, and tucks himself against his father’s side, his arm wrapping around his father’s waist. His dad takes a deep, shuddering breath and keeps stroking Blaine’s hair with gentle, confident fingers.

“I’m right here,” his dad says. “I’m right here.”

 

*

 

Holly sighs and opens up her fridge. The problem is that she tends to choose her wine by the animal on the label, and the last time she went shopping, she was in a penguin kind of mood. Of course, now she's not in a penguin mood at all, and it's the only booze in the house.

She wonders what a math teacher is supposed to drink. Ben seemed to like his scotch okay. Maybe she should develop a taste for scotch. Of course, so far her experiences with hard liquor tend to revolve entirely around tequila, and they've ended pretty badly, but you can sip scotch, can't you? You can't sip tequila.

Not that it matters, because it's not like she has either, so she shrugs and grabs the bottle of disappointing penguin wine.

"Look," she says, pressing her phone a little more firmly between her shoulderblade and her ear. "It's not like I don't get that this is a big deal. I do. I get that this is a big deal. It's just -- I made a promise, Penn."

"You did," Penny huffs, obviously a little frustrated. "You promised me you'd help me find Desmond, which is why I need you to --"

"Technically, I didn't promise you anything," Holly points out, yanking the cork out of her wine. "You said you'd give me a lot of money if I helped you find your Scottish hottie, which I'm actually still planning on doing. Just, you know, without leaving Ohio." She grabs a solo cup off the counter, fills it up to the second line, then shrugs and keeps pouring all the way to the top. After all, faster she gets rid of the penguin wine, faster she can get into something better. "Anyway, your dad knows that you and Ben are working together, which presumably means he knows that there's an intermediary, which presumably means he knows about me. Which by that chain of logic means that if I show up at the Port of LA and start snooping around the dry bulk lanes, he's probably going to notice me. Which means trouble."

"And you don't think he'd notice if one of the Oceanic survivors started --"

"Honestly?" Holly takes a drink of her wine (too sour, too much like vinegar, and to hell with penguins anyway) and pads over to her futon. God, what if she has to buy real furniture at some point? She's never bought a bed before; either they come with the apartment or they don't. How do people just do that, buying beds? "No." She settles down as comfortably as she can, with her feet curled up under her. "I don't think he would, because I don't think he knows who any of the Oceanic survivors are, not really. He doesn't care about them. He cares about you."

Penny scoffs at that, and Holly winces a little, because yeah, that kind of was a bad choice of words. True enough, maybe, but still a bad choice of words.

"My point is, Michael's just a random. He's some guy who got on a plane and crashed on an Island and then got off the Island and now he's here. But otherwise, he's not connected to your dad. He's not connected to you, not really, and he's not connected to Ben. And that's all your dad seems to care about, so."

"Hmm." Penny's quiet for a little while, so Holly just sits and drinks her vinegar and counts the stains on the carpet. Maybe she should clean those. Maybe she should get a new carpet. Maybe she should get a new apartment, and then she wouldn't have to worry about things like not owning a bed and having stains on the carpet. She doesn't have to leave Lima to get a new apartment, does she? She could get one with a lease, maybe. Six months. Or a year, even.

Maybe not a year. Maybe a year is too much.

Six months, maybe.

"Speaking of Ben," Penny says, and Holly tucks her feet under her a little more. "I mean, you do realize there's no reason for the guilty conscience, don't you? We didn't bring him into this. What happened to his son... I'm not glad of it, obviously, and I'm tremendously sorry that we couldn't do more to prevent it, but we did not bring this upon him. And while I don't know much about him, it doesn't seem as though he blames you."

That, actually, is true; Holly knows that because she's heard it from the man himself. He didn't say it quite as nicely; what he said, actually, was "Well. Of course I suppose I couldn't have expected either you or Ms. Widmore to foresee this, since I obviously didn't anticipate it myself," and while at least he didn't flat-out call either of them stupid, it was pretty strongly implied that both she and Penny were out of their depths (and they are, too; that's something else that's completely true). "It's not about that," Holly says, tugging her sweater down over her knees.

If she does get a new apartment, she should probably start by getting one with better heat.

"Then what is it about, Holly?" Penny asks, quietly. "Help me to understand this, because I really don't understand right now."

Of course, the problem is that Holly doesn't understand either.

“I made a promise, Penn,” she says. “And I don’t do that a whole lot.”

Penny’s quiet for a long time. Then, finally, she sighs. “Well,” she says. “I reckon we've got all the information out of Mr. Dawson that we're going to, yeah? May as well put him to work, rather than having him just hang about Lima at loose ends. Who knows? Maybe there'll be someone on that ship that he knows, someone he can get to, learn from."

“Yeah,” Holly says, and feels weirdly relieved. Terrified, too, but terror she’s getting used to. The relief is the weird part. “Yeah, maybe there will be.”


	3. Special Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What we know, what we don't know, what they know, what we know they know, what they know we know, and what we don't know they know we know.

Sayid finds Juliet's car at a bus station in Gulfport, Mississippi, on a Wednesday morning.

It hasn't been abandoned long, judging by the parking tickets piled up underneath the windshield wipers. He pulls them out, thumbs through them, does the math in his head. Juliet left Lima immediately after the school day ended on Friday, but the first ticket was left on Monday afternoon. It wouldn't have taken her nearly that long to drive straight down from Ohio; there must have been a detour along the way. Florida, perhaps. Where her sister lives.

She couldn't have stayed long, of course. Just an hour or so, just long enough to find her sister, to make sure she was still alive.

And then to the Greyhound Station.

And then from there --

Well. That's the question.

When he tries the door of her car, it opens easily, unlocked. There's nothing inside, of course. Her purse is in the compartment between the seats, completely empty save for her wallet, which has also been cleaned out. There's nothing in the glovebox, nor in the trunk. She's made it very easy for whoever will eventually sell (or steal) her car.

Of course, she's made it very hard for him, but then he supposes that was the point.

Sayid slams the trunk shut, straightens and looks up at the bus station. Assuming that Juliet purchased a ticket (which is not necessarily as obvious as it may seem -- the bus station may simply be a ruse), it is exceedingly unlikely that there is anyone inside who was here to see her do so. And even if anyone did see, would they remember? The odds of there being any useful information inside that building are exceptionally slight.

But if he wants to find Juliet at all, this is the natural place to start.

That is, of course, assuming he wants to find her.

It would be so easy to walk away. There's no one watching them now that Juliet is gone. He could follow in her footsteps -- he could walk right into that bus station, purchase a ticket, travel anywhere. Irvine -- that's where they said _she_ was, before he left Australia. She might not be there now, of course, but it's a place to start. He could find her. He could be free.

Then his telephone rings.

The only people who have this number are Sun, Arzt, Michael, and Juliet. There is no one else. But the number flashing up on his screen belongs to none of these people. It's a number he's never seen before.

He does the only thing he can think of to do.

He answers it.

"Sayid?" It's a woman's voice, completely unfamiliar. "My name is Jill. I was Juliet's contact in Los Angeles. I understand she's gone missing."

It would do Sayid no good to lie, so he doesn't bother. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I've tracked her as far as Mississippi, but I'm afraid that I've --"

"Don't worry about it," Jill says. "Juliet will come home in time. We have more important things to discuss, you and I. How quickly can you be here?"

"Here?" Sayid repeats. "In Los Angeles?"

It's a question, but it isn't, really. It's almost terrifying, how quickly one can fall back into the habit of taking orders.

"Where else?" Jill says. "There's someone here who needs to speak to you. Urgently."

"And who might that be?" Sayid asks.

There's a pause, and then a different voice on the other end of the line. A male voice, terribly familiar. "Hello, Sayid."

It's terrifying, how quickly all hope of freedom can vanish.

 

*

 

Wednesday is an early morning, so Kurt brings an extra cup of coffee for Blaine, makes Finn hold it while he helps Blaine out of his dad's car. "We could wait for you," he offers, leaning in to talk to Mr. Anderson as Blaine hovers over his shoulder. "While you're talking to Figgins. If you wanted, we could --"

Mr. Anderson shakes his head. There's something almost like a smile on his face, and he looks... relieved, maybe? Kurt couldn't say why, unless it's just that he finally knows, now, what will happen next, in terms of his back and everything. And maybe that's enough, just knowing what's going to happen. "It's fine, Kurt," Mr. Anderson says, his voice gentle. "Go on about your day. I'll be all right. And you know where my office is, if you need anything."

Kurt nods, and shuts the door, and waits until Mr. Anderson's car has vanished into the back parking lot before leading Finn and Blaine up the handicapped ramp and into the school. It's quiet, the three of them lost in their own thoughts, and Kurt just keeps walking, listening to the scuffing of Finn's feet and the soft thumping of Blaine's crutches in the industrial carpet as they pass Kurt and Blaine's lockers, pass Finn's locker too, and walk and walk until eventually, they're standing outside the choir room.

Finn looks at him, and Kurt shrugs. "We've got half an hour," he points out. "And at least we won't get kicked out of the choir room for bringing coffee."

Finn just shrugs back, and opens the door.

Rachel's standing in the center of the room, meticulously tearing sheet music into shreds and dropping the scraps of paper on the floor around her feet.

Kurt is just barely able to catch Blaine's coffee before Finn can drop it.

"Rachel --" Finn breathes, and she stiffens, turns to look at the three of them with wide eyes.

"This isn't what it looks like," she says, immediately, and the funny thing is that Kurt actually hadn't leapt to any sort of conclusion about what Rachel was doing, but the moment she says that? He totally does.

And so must Finn, because the next words out of his mouth are "Rachel, what are you doing?"

Rachel's jaw drops. "I just told you, it's not -- It's _mine_ , okay?" she snaps. "It's my music. Every ballad from my back pocket, every carefully chosen duet that I had prepared to present to Mr. Schuester for his consideration for Sectionals -- Every hope and every dream that I had, and now it's all just --"

Her face crumples, and she drops the rest of her sheet music to the floor, the pieces scattering on the tiles. Kurt has just one second to recognize the look in her eyes and sidestep in front of Blaine like a human shield; and then Rachel bolts, dodging Kurt and Blaine but knocking Finn back against the doorframe as she pushes past and down the hallway, pleated skirt kicking up and showing off her patterned tights as she runs.

For a moment, Finn just gapes. Then he shakes his head and takes off after her, calling "Rachel! Rachel!"

There's a long pause, and Kurt realizes he doesn't want to turn around, doesn't want to see the horror and confusion on Blaine's face as he realizes that everyone Kurt knows is terminally insane. But then Blaine starts making this weird sound, and Kurt spins around quickly, because he has to know. He has to.

And Blaine is... giggling.

Well, maybe it's more of a snicker, or at least it starts that way, but then Blaine takes a look at Kurt's face (and admittedly, he's got to be a picture, with his jaw hanging open and his eyes popping and oh God he really needs to compose himself, but he can't, not when Blaine's just so --) and it turns into this sort of helpless guffawing, Blaine's hands tight around his crutches and he's just barely managing to hold himself upright, head hanging and shoulders shaking, and Kurt feels his slackjawed expression shifting into a smile before he can stop himself because Blaine is _laughing_ , and it's incredibly infectious.

He says, "It's not funny," anyway, and it comes out shaky with suppressed giggles, and Blaine eyes him, shakes his head, still laughing.

"It is," he says, his eyes crinkled up around the edges and shining bright and although Blaine means a lot to Kurt in a lot of ways, and their friendship is currently all kinds of confusing because Kurt thought Blaine was going to protect him, and he did, and he does, but also Kurt feels like he needs to protect Blaine a lot, and there's that weirdness with Kurt's mom and Blaine's dad and then the fact that they shared the same bed two nights in a row and sometimes Blaine is like a frightened child but also there's the fact that he stood up and fought back even when Karofsky had a freaking gun in his hands, and... There's a lot, and it's complicated, but every so often Kurt just looks at Blaine and thinks _Oh my God, he's so gorgeous_ and it turns out that Blaine laughing is definitely one of those times.

Also, he's been staring at Blaine for too long, because the smile slips from Blaine's face and he starts babbling. "I mean, not that it's funny that Rachel's crying, because it's not, and I do feel bad for her; I just -- It's just so -- It's just so _normal_ , and I --"

Kurt's face cracks into a broad grin, and he shakes his head, and says "You have a really strange definition of normal," before he thinks twice about what he's just said, and shuts his mouth because _oh my God_.

"Yeah, well," Blaine says, with a sad little shrug, and the apology is on the tip of Kurt's tongue when Blaine adds, "Don't apologize, Kurt. It's not... I mean, it's true, so."

And there's sheet music on the floor, and two cups of coffee cooling in Kurt's hands, and Blaine is just standing there in the doorway, no longer laughing, and Kurt hates that he's messed up but he's still got about twenty minutes left to salvage it, so he sighs and starts walking into the choir room, telling Blaine to "Come on," when he stays where he is, hesitant.

He gets Blaine settled in a chair in the front row, his backpack hanging off the back, crutches on the floor at his side, and hands one of the cups of coffee over.

"This is --" Blaine looks up at him, hesitant. "This is for me?"

"Wasn't sure how you slept," Kurt says, setting his own coffee down on the chair next to Blaine’s, shrugging off his coat, dropping his satchel to the floor. He thinks about sitting down himself, abandoning Rachel's mess for someone else to clean up and just being with Blaine, just for a little while, but he's kind of a compulsive stress cleaner, and he just... can't, with all these things happening, and all this _mess_ , so he heads over to the little semicircle of paper, crouches down to start picking it up. "And I knew you had to be here early, so I thought -- It's just a medium drip, but I grabbed some cream and sugar if you wanted. They're in my coat pockets."

"Thank you," Blaine says, and it sounds weirdly like a reflex; Kurt glances up from collecting the bits of paper just to see what Blaine looks like when he says it, but Blaine's eyes fixed on the cup of coffee in his hands, like he's never seen anything like it before. "I --" He looks at Kurt, then looks down again, quickly. “Thank you. For... For thinking of me.”

Kurt has no idea how to respond to that; it wouldn’t be so bad if Blaine didn’t sound so much like his father, but he _does_ , and that’s a problem. That they’re both so surprised whenever anyone does anything nice for them, that even the smallest kindness just shocks them into silence. Kurt doesn’t know what to do with that. So he just mumbles out a "You're welcome" and goes back to picking up Rachel's mess.

And is that really the sheet music for "My Heart Will Go On?" Because Celine is _his_ , he thought he made that perfectly clear back when he was a Cheerio, and yes, he let Rachel borrow her once, for the wedding, but that doesn't mean --

"Actually," Blaine says again, with a little nervous chuckle, and Kurt doesn't look up this time, scoops up his pile of scraps and carries them over to the trash, watching them flutter down on top of an empty slushie cup and some used tissues. "But I... Um. Just, like we said yesterday, about giving... giving each other something, and I -- I brought mine, and if you couldn't find... If you couldn't find anything, that's okay, but I did want to give you --"

“No,” Kurt says, still staring into the depths of the trash can, and it comes out breathless and a little echoey. He looks over at Blaine, still sitting there with his cup of coffee in his hands, eyebrows furrowed, looking a little hurt. “I mean, no, I didn't have -- I’ve found her. What I wanted to give you, I... I found her. So if you wanted, right now, we could --”

“Okay,” Blaine says, and maybe it’s Kurt’s imagination, probably it is, but he sounds almost as breathless as Kurt feels. “So should we just --”

“Oh God yes,” Kurt says, and hurries back over to his satchel; and he can’t even wait for Blaine to twist around and start unzipping his backpack, so he just flips his bag open without raising his eyes even once, and pulls Margaret Thatcher Dog out from where she’s nestled amongst his notebooks. “Sorry, she’s a little squashed, but she -- Well, I mean she’s always a little squashed, I guess, but that’s really part of her --” He turns around, holding her out to Blaine, who is pulling a stuffed dog of his own out of his backpack. “Oh my God.”

Blaine freezes with his dog halfway out of the bag and looks up at Kurt, confused and almost hurt. Then his eyes drift down to the stuffed bulldog in Kurt’s hands, and he says, "Oh my God," too.

And then Kurt starts to laugh, kneeling next to his chair and holding a stuffed dog and laughing, and Blaine still hasn’t gotten his own stuffed dog out of his backpack and _he’s_ laughing and they both just laugh like that for a long time.

It feels good, actually.

It feels really good.

(But it feels even better when the laughter has stopped and Blaine has Margaret Thatcher Dog on his lap and Kurt is petting Vincent’s remaining ear, and Kurt can practically hear his mother say _now we never have to be away from each other_ and he knows it wasn't true for Mr. Anderson and his mom, and he's not sure how it could be true for him and Blaine, but he almost believes it anyway.)

 

*

 

He's still burning up inside, seething from that stupid fight with Rachel and every stupid thing she said to him ( _I know that it was scary, and confusing, and... I know that, Finn, but it's over, and we need to move on to more important things_ \-- because it's not that simple and it's not over and yeah okay Rachel doesn't know all that but _still_ ), and he's tense all over and twitching and the only thing that keeps him from skipping out on American History so he can go to the weight room and punch some things really hard is the fact that Blaine shows up at his locker, all short and bow-tied and hobbling along on his crutches (and how is it supposed to be over when Blaine's still on crutches, Rachel? Jesus. And there’s scary people coming after him and he can’t do anything about it because of the crutches and just -- But Rachel doesn’t know that.) And so he goes to American History, and sits there, and seethes, and then tries to smile when Blaine looks over at him because he thinks sometimes that Blaine's a little scared of him and this is probably one of those times, except right now he's probably just looking weird and creepy because he's pissed, pissed at Rachel, and when this class is over he's going to have to sit through English, with Rachel, and they usually sit next to each other but he doesn't think they can today because they're fighting which sucks because she understands the reading and he doesn't and now there's not going to be anyone to help him because Rachel is being _selfish_ (but she’s not, is she? She just doesn’t know), and it all just spins around and around in his head until he pretty much doesn't even know where he's going anymore, and it's not until Santana slips her arm into his and cuddles up next to him that he even realizes that somehow he's walked out of American History and made his way back to his locker and now he's just standing there and he doesn't know how long he's been there and holy shit, Santana's like glued to his side and -- "What are you doing?" he hisses at her. "You're supposed to be taking Blaine to Spanish class! Jesus, Santana --"

"Calm your tits, Man Boobs," she says, and squeezes his arm. "Britt's got him." She waves one hand lazily at the aisle, where Brittany is obediently trailing after Blaine, one hand on the top loop of Blaine's backpack, like he's leading her and not other way around. "Oh, don't look like that," Santana adds, when Finn starts to frown (because really? Brittany?). "Yes, Brittany acts like she's about as dangerous as a heavily sedated kitten, but she could break a man's neck with her thighs if she had to. Anyway, she likes Blaine. I think. And besides, we've probably got the rest of the week at least before the sharks stop circling and make with the attack maneuvers, so it's fine."

"Santana --" Finn says, and none of this is a good idea -- she should not be letting Brittany walk Blaine to class (is Brittany even _in_ that class?) and she should not be with Finn and holding on to his arm and he should not be letting her drag him away from his locker or at least he should shut it before someone fills it with shaving cream or something gross -- but Santana's right about one thing; all of the cheerleaders are like really freakishly strong, and he can't get away from her that easily.

"C'mon," she says, and keeps pulling. "You and I need some lady chat."

"I have to get to --"

"Mmm-hmm." She keeps dragging him down the hallway. "Because I know you're just dying to stroll into your world lit class and take a seat on the other side of the room from Berry so the two of you can pretend to ignore each other for an hour. And then you can go to lunch and do it all over again. And doesn't that just sound like fun."

Santana yanks open the door to an empty classroom and pushes Finn inside; Finn's already unnerved enough, but it gets a lot worse when he realizes where they are.

The astronomy classroom.

"Santana," he says, and starts edging towards the door. "Santana, you said we were just going to talk."

She actually looks confused at that for a second, like she genuinely does not understand what people go to the astronomy room for (and come on, even Finn understands that; he's not sure why it's so hard for her). Then she rolls her eyes and starts making her way towards the teacher's desk. "Oh please," she says, scoffing. "I _had_ that, remember? And it didn't exactly leave me hungry for seconds. Which is surprising, considering the size of it. I mean, really, in terms of proportion, you're just all kinds of --"

"Okay," Finn says, and turns back to the door. "Okay, fine. You wanna insult me, that's fine, but if that's all you've got to say, I'm going to go find something else to --"

"You told her it wasn't over," Santana calls out, and when Finn turns around again, she's perched up on the astronomy teacher's desk, legs swinging.

Finn blinks at her. "What?" he asks. "I -- Who? What? That doesn't make any sense."

Santana folds her arms, keeps swinging her legs; it's weird in a way that Finn can't classify (he knows Kurt would have a word for it, something with a lot of syllables, but he can't think what it might be). "Rachel," Santana says. "I heard you this morning. Fighting. And she told you it was okay to be scared after what happened with Karofsky, but that it was over now, and you said it wasn't --"

"I said it wasn't like that," Finn says, quickly, but it doesn't sound convincing. Which makes sense, because it wasn't really what he meant, he just said that because he realized that if he had said the other thing then Rachel would ask questions which he wouldn't be able to answer, so he came up with something else to say real fast, and Rachel was barely listening anyway so it didn't matter.

But Santana must've been listening, and that kind of makes him feel a little queasy.

"That's what I said," he repeats, when Santana gives him that look that says she isn't buying it. "I didn't say it wasn't over. I never said that."

"And congratulations on a completely unconvincing job of backtracking," Santana says, hands falling down to grip the desk. Her feet stop kicking, little white sneakers falling still against the hard, dark wood of the teacher's desk. "Seriously, you're like the most hopeless liar ever, and I have no idea why you're bothering. Just because you didn't _say_ it wasn't over doesn't mean that's not what you meant."

"I don't -- Just --" Finn sputters a bit, stares helplessly at Santana's shoes, at the WMHS in bold red on her chest, at the clean blackboard just behind her right shoulder. "I mean, like Miss P was saying, with the PTSD, and the -- I mean, when we were at Blaine's house, over the weekend, he had like this crazy nightmare, and --" Which of course is something he probably shouldn't have said, and he clamps his mouth shut, gives up and just stares at a spot on the carpet and wishes he could disappear.

"Oh get that look off your face," Santana snaps; Finn looks up enough to see her fingers tightening on the edge of the desk, knuckles going white. "Like I'm gonna run right out of here and start mocking Preppy just because he's not totally okay after that meathead Karofsky stuck a gun in his back and took him hostage. I'm a bitch. I'm not a monster." She takes a deep breath, straightens up, and adds, "And I'm not stupid, either. You didn't tell Rachel that it wasn't over --"

"-- I _didn't_ ," Finn points out, quietly, but Santana just steamrollers him.

" -- because you're worried that Frodo's still traumatized from being held captive by frickin' Shelob the giant spider," she finishes, and Finn just blinks at her, because where did the giant spider come in to this? "You said that because you don't think it's over. You think something else is gonna happen. That someone else is coming. Don't you?"

Finn can feel his eyebrows drawing together; he's still not totally sure what Santana's talking about (he knows who Frodo is -- those movies were cool; he liked the big-ass eagles and that chick who said "I AM NO MAN," and he guesses maybe Blaine is supposed to be Frodo but he just doesn't get the spider thing), but he's kind of getting the feeling that there's a reason Santana's hassling him about this. " _You_ think it's not over," he says, and Santana's mouth gets all thin, her eyes narrowing. "Don't you? You think someone's coming for them. For Blaine and his dad. That's why you're so upset about this."

"I'm not upset about anything," Santana says, and folds her arms again, and turns to look at one of the walls, where a map of the solar system is starting to peel away from the cinderblock.

And the thing is? Finn might not be, like, a super-good liar, but Santana's really not any better.

"That's not a no, Santana," he says, quietly, and it's weird, because it's like he can feel the air being slowly punched out of him, because Santana knows _something_. Maybe not everything, but definitely something. And he doesn't know what to do about that.

"You know what?" Santana pops off the desk, feet hitting the floor with a muffled thump. "Screw this. Honestly, I don't even really give a damn about any of it; I just like it when you and Manhands get your fight on." For a second, Finn thinks she's going to try to push past him on her way out, like Rachel did that morning, but as soon as he takes a step forward to block her, she skirts to the right, dodging around the desks and along the far wall, like she's actually really trying to avoid him. He tries to cut between the desks, but by the time he's halfway to the side aisle, she's rounding the corner and heading for the door. "Oh, and by the way?" Santana glances back at him, where he stands stuck, surrounded by plastic chairs. "Rachel's right. It's over. Whatever happened in that room, whatever Karofsky wanted? It's over."

"You don't actually believe that," Finn says, and Santana's eyes meet his, and he knows he's right. She's lying. It's not over. And she knows it.

He's pretty sure he needs to do something about that, but he has no idea what.

"Screw you," Santana says, quietly, and then she's gone.

 

*

 

The problem is, she doesn't know where to go from here.

Spanish class? Sit and listen to Mr. Schue mangle her language while Blaine sits next to her with his enormous anime eyes, nodding and taking notes like there's not a damn thing wrong? And Santana would have to sit there next to him, knowing, and knowing that _he_ knows, because he has to know something. If Finn knows, then Blaine definitely knows, and probably Kurt too, or he wouldn't hover over Blaine like a bear with a cub (and even now it occurs to her that this is the first and probably the only time that anyone has ever thought of Kurt as a _bear_ ). And Mr. Anderson, of course. They all have to know something.

But then the thing is she doesn't know _what_ they know. Obviously, Mr. Anderson didn't know about Nurse Juliet, or he wouldn't have looked at her the way he did, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't looking back. But he has to know about Karofsky's dad by now. So does he know about the Iraqi? That black guy whose kid goes to Dalton? The Korean woman? Santana doesn't know what he knows, what he doesn't know; she doesn't know if she should tell him, or Blaine, or someone, anyone, even Finn --

The door to the astronomy room opens behind her, and Santana makes her mind up. All Finn has to do is say something. One thing, that's all, and it's just going to come rushing out of her, every single thing she knows, every single thing she wishes she could erase.

After a second, Finn makes a strangled noise, and says, "Rachel."

Santana has maybe half a second to look up and see Rachel staring at them, all teary-eyed and horrified, before she turns and runs away.

Santana takes off after her. At least it's somewhere to go.

Rachel runs to the girl's room -- predictable. But it's the last period before lunch and everyone who was going to skip out early has already bailed, so there's just one other girl in there, some JV Cheerio Santana barely even knows, and it only takes half a glare before the girl's stuffing her mascara back into her bag and hurrying out again. Rachel's already hidden herself in a stall, of course, but she's the only girl in school who wears mary janes without irony, and her shoes sticking out underneath the stall door are a dead giveaway. The sniffling doesn't hurt either.

Santana rolls her eyes and sighs. "I'm not sleeping with your boyfriend, Berry," she says. She's not sure what kind of mood she's in, but she's definitely not in the mood to be tactful. "Anyway, I'm easy, not desperate. He's not hot enough for me to waste my time."

"He was last year," Rachel says, still sniffling. "Hot enough for you and Brittany, remember?"

"Yeah, well, that was last year." Santana folds her arms and leans against the sink. "And it wasn't personal. Coach Sue wanted us to break you two up so we could break up the glee club, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. And then I needed a boytoy for Madonna week and he's like six days younger than me or something, so we went out a couple times so I could get Sue off my back. But I wouldn't have gone out with him if Coach Sue hadn't told me to. Which is actually a little creepy, when you think about it."

More sniffling from the bathroom stall, and Berry's feet shift awkwardly. "How do I know she's not telling you what to do now?" she asks, but she sounds a little uncertain, like she actually realizes how crazy she sounds. "Maybe this is some top-secret plan for her to take over the Glee club with you and Finn as the new power couple and you'll have all the duets and win Nationals and she'll take over for Mr. Schue and then she'll become principal again and --"

"And then someone else can get shot." It slips out before Santana can help it, and Rachel's feet freeze underneath the stall door. And it's not fair, maybe, and it's not Sue's fault, but Santana can't help but think about it every time she looks at Sue and she knows for a fact that Sue's thinking it every time she looks at her.

Most people think about it when they look at her, to be honest, and that's how Santana's going to talk her way out of this. Because maybe she should tell someone about the manila file folder -- maybe she should tell Mr. Anderson or Kurt or Coach Sue or someone, but she can't tell Rachel. Not because Rachel's a total blabbermouth who cannot be trusted with anything (although she is), but because It wouldn't be fair. And Santana's not always fair, but... she can be, today.

"Look, just... You cannot tell anyone about this, okay? If you tell anyone, I will punch you in the face in front of everyone and get suspended and we'll be down one for Sectionals and won't be able to compete so you have to keep your mouth shut."

There's a long pause. "Okay?" Rachel says, finally.

Santana takes a deep breath. "Finn and I were talking," she says. "Honest to God, no touching involved, just... talking. About Preppy. I mean... About Blaine."

"What about him?" Rachel asks, and she's trying to sound skeptical, but mostly she just sounds confused.

"Just..." She shakes her head. "I mean, the kid took a bullet for me, okay? And yeah, you ask him how he is and he gives you his brave little Princess Diana smile, but then yesterday he freaked out in glee club and bolted, and maybe things were a little tense but it wasn't that bad, not for us, so I just..." Santana blows out another breath. "I'm worried, okay? And I'd ask Kurt, but Kurt's still in the jealous and possessive and clingy phase, so he'd probably eat me or something. But Finn's hung around with Blaine a little, and they had that sleepover after the wedding or whatever, so I figured... I figured he'd know. How Blaine's doing. And he'd tell me, because he's a terrible liar, so."

"You wanted to talk to Finn," Rachel repeats, sounding more subdued. "About Blaine. You're worried about him."

"Like I said, he took a bullet for me." Maybe if he hadn't, she could have let it go by now. Thrown away the folder and moved on with her life. But he did, and so she's stuck. At least she gets to lie. It's not much comfort, but it's all she has.

Rachel's quiet for a long time. Finally, she says, "Wow." Her voice sounds wet and choked, like she's crying. "Wow. I really am the most selfish person in the world, aren't I?"

Santana's not quite feeling mean enough to agree, but she's nowhere near nice enough to argue, either. "Top twenty-five," she says. "Top ten, maybe."

Rachel actually laughs at that, and it's wet and gurgly and honestly pretty gross, but it gives Santana this weird warm feeling that she immediately tries to suppress. "Everybody's been trying to take care of Blaine and make sure he's safe, and I'm just thinking about solos and competitions and --"

"Yeah, well," Santana says, and she could leave it there, but apparently she can't, in the end. "I mean, I don't think Preppy wants to sit down and have a crying circle over it, or anything. Just, you know. If you could yell a little less, since he doesn't seem to be handling loud noises very well and no one wants him to have an episode in the choir room. I mean, if he does, Puck's been carrying zip ties in his backpack. But I think Hummel would murder us all if we tried to restrain his boyfriend, so. If you could keep the volume down, that would be great."

"Okay," Rachel says, very softly, from the bathroom stall. Then she's quiet again, and Santana takes a moment to enjoy it before realizing that she and Rachel Berry are currently in the middle of a sincere heart-to-heart, and if Santana's not careful, it's going to end in --

Rachel's stall door swings open. "Santana?" she asks. "I know... I mean, you don't have to, but -- You were in that room, too, when Karofsky -- Are _you_ okay? After what happened?"

Santana sighs; her shoulders slump. She has no idea how she's going to justify this to herself later. "There's no way for me to get out of this without a hug, is there?" she asks.

Rachel, with her blotchy face and smeared mascara, sniffles again, and Santana gives in.

"I don't know," she says. "I mean... I really thought I was going to die in there, you know? Like, when I saw Blaine, and the look on his face, and Karofsky behind him... But I didn't die. And most of the time it's okay, and it's over, and I'm safe, but sometimes... Sometimes I still think that if I look up at the doorway at the wrong moment, he'll be there. Staring back at me."

Except she doesn't think it'll be Karofsky, not really. Maybe it'll be that black guy whose kid goes to Dalton, or the Iraqi, or maybe Nurse Juliet -- maybe even the Korean woman. But she leaves that part out. It'd just be confusing anyway.

"So..." She shrugs. "I don't know. I don't know if I'm okay or not. But I know what Finn means, when he says it's not over."

Rachel looks at her for a long time, and then steps in and wraps her arms around Santana, and holds on tight.

Santana lets her, because she doesn't know what else to do.

She doesn't know anything, really.

Which means she's going to need to find someone who does, and fast.

 

*

 

"So then Santana comes into the classroom, ten minutes before the bell, arm-in-arm with _Rachel Berry_. And bear in mind, those two were going at it like cats and dogs yesterday. I mean, they hated each other. And suddenly -- I don't know." Will shrugs. "It's like ever since I was out with the flu, things have just gone completely... Bizarro, you know?"

"What can I say? I'm a bad influence." Holly breezes into the room, skirt as short as ever, smile firmly fixed on her face, but there's something different about her lately, Emma thinks. She looks... tired. Like something's wearing on her. And when she pulls up a chair, she sits closer to Emma than she does to Will, which strikes Emma as odd, although she couldn't say exactly why.

And of course, Will looks disappointed, although he hides it under a grin. "Well, bad influence or not, we'll sure miss you when you --"

"Oh, haven't you heard?" Holly's smile broadens, but somehow it looks even less natural than it did before. "I'm staying. Ben's going to need someone to take his precalc classes for a while, and he asked me if I would. So I said yes."

"Really?" There's something hopeful in Will's voice, and it grates, even though Emma knows it shouldn't. After all, Will and Holly do get along, and seem suited for each other, and of course Emma's with Carl anyway, so she doesn't have a reason to be jealous. It never stopped her when she was with Ken, of course, but that was different. "Wow. I mean, not that I'm not glad to hear that, because I am, but I guess I just never saw you as the sticking-around type."

Holly shrugs. "That's 'cause I'm not," she says. "This is the first time I've spent more than a month in the same school district in I don't know how long. Let alone a month straight in the same classroom. _And_ it's math, which I hate. But I guess..."

Then Holly looks up, and just like that, everything in her face softens. She's still smiling, but it's smaller, more genuine.

Emma turns, and sees Ben Anderson coming into the teacher's lounge.

"But I guess Ben's just good at talking me into things," Holly finishes, louder now, somehow much more herself.

Ben smiles back at her, and suddenly, Emma's not so bothered by how pretty Holly is, or how well she and Will seem to get along. She's not bothered by much of anything at all, really.

Except, perhaps, how slowly Ben seems to be moving. How stiffly he walks. That does bother her a little.

"I can be very persuasive," Ben says, deadpan. He reaches out for a chair, but doesn't sit down in it; he just rests one hand on the back, leaning. "So I suppose you've told them, then?"

Will looks at Emma, frowning, his eyebrows drawn together. Then he looks back up at Ben, still frowning. "Told us what?" he asks.

 

*

 

"Miss Holliday has agreed to lighten my load and continue working with you until I've gotten approval to go back to my usual schedule," Mr. Anderson says, one hand on his desk, like he doesn't trust his legs to hold him up anymore. "I had hoped to be able to give you some idea of when that might be, but so far, the most my doctors will tell me is that it will take the time it takes. Which is somewhat less than specific, but I'm afraid that's all I have."

He makes eye contact with Artie, just for a second. "I suppose I can only hope that time is on my side," he says.

Then he pushes away from his desk, takes a few uncertain steps towards Miss Holliday; she has her hands folded behind her back, like she's forcing herself not to reach out. Artie knows that look; it's the same look his mom used to get when he was learning to transfer himself out out of the chair and onto the couch, or into his bed. Like she knows she shouldn't help him, but she still wants to.

It's weird to see that look directed at someone else.

The whole thing is weird, though, really. Especially what Mr. Anderson said, about hoping that time was on his side. He knows it's a coincidence -- of course it is, it has to be -- but it didn't sound like a coincidence

It sounded like a plea for help.

"I've heard nothing but good things about your behavior in my absence," Mr. Anderson continues. "I'm trusting that you will all continue to --"

Artie's pretty sure you can't actually cure someone's tumor through means of time travel; he still doesn't know what it is that Brittany's trying to prevent. Just... Whatever's really happening here, Artie's pretty sure that time is more of a factor than Mr. Anderson would ever dream it was.

Which means he and Brittany have a lot of work to do.

 

*

 

_Gonna be okay_

The nice thing about the way her body works is that it doesn't matter what her brain is doing. Her body knows the moves, doesn't stop dancing, even when she snaps back into herself, eyes focusing on the textured acoustic tiles underneath the windows.

_Spin that record babe_

She knows this dance. She knows this dance and she knows the people dancing all around her. She knows Finn's awkward, eyes-down shuffle; she knows the guilty slump of Rachel's shoulders, she knows the defiant upward tilt of Santana's chin. She knows the way that Kurt smiles at Blaine, and she knows the way Blaine watches Kurt, scared and hopeful and longing and loving.

_Gonna be okay_

She knows this dance; she knows this day -- Wednesday, three days before Sectionals. Santana still hasn't told anyone about the folder yet, but she's thinking about it. And Finn sort of knows anyway, but he's not sure what he knows. And Rachel doesn't know anything at all, of course. Blaine hasn't asked Kurt out yet, even though he wants to. But he won't do that until after his dad's legs stop working, and that hasn't happened yet.

Brittany knows what day it is, and it's a good day. Because it's closer. She's getting closer.

_Just, just, just dance_

She's still shimmying to the beat when she snaps back into herself and her eyes focus on Artie's, watching her from behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

 

*

 

She lights a candle for no one in particular, then glances up at the Caravaggio hanging in front of her. Morbid, she's always thought. And a bit uncalled-for, as well. Perhaps St. Thomas had his doubts about the resurrection. So what? It isn't an easy thing to wrap one's mind around, after all. And anyway, he was convinced, eventually.

Everyone's convinced, in the end.

"Hello, Eloise."

She doesn't startle, of course. It's been a long life, and a challenging one, and not much gives her pause anymore. Instead, she turns, looking back down the aisle to where Ethan stands, looking small and somewhat out of place between the pews.

"Hello, Ethan," she says. And then, "I suppose this means that it's time."

Ethan nods back at her. "I'm afraid so."

"Well." Eloise glances to the right; there's a stained glass window depicting the Pieta, the dead son limp in his bereaved mother's arms. There are worse things in the Bible -- God is a malevolent old bastard, she's always thought -- but this has always been the one to hit her hardest. The grief of Mary, given such a marvelous gift only to see it snatched away again. Eloise has always wondered if Mary thought it was worth it, to sacrifice her son for the world's redemption. Or if, in the end, she simply had no choice; if she knew that sooner or later, God would force her hand.

It's all very well to be convinced, but that doesn't mean one has to be happy about it.

"Well," she says again. "Let's get started."

As she walks past the candles, they gutter, but none of them go out.  



	4. The Sky Apart From the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last words Sun's husband said to her were, "Don't come back." But he of all people should know that she was never a very obedient wife.

_then_

 

The last words her husband said to her were, "Don't come back."

She stood on the dock, Juliet's hand on her shoulder; Juliet's gun was hidden away, but Sun knew she had one, close. If Sun knew where it was, she could take it; she could wrestle Juliet down and take the gun from her and...

And nothing. Because Juliet had hidden her gun, but there were still rifles all around; heavily armed men surrounding her husband, and Sun knew that one wrong move on her part would lead to his death. And there would be nothing she could do but watch him die.

"Don't worry about a thing," Ethan said, and smiled at her. He rested a hand on her husband's shoulder, mirroring Juliet's grip on her. "We'll keep an eye on him for you. He's in good hands."

Sun glanced briefly behind them, where John Locke stood, silent. He grinned at her, winked, and she shuddered.

"I promise you," Ethan said. "You'll be back together before you know it."

Sun turned back to her husband, looked at him one last time -- his ragged, dirty shirt, damp hair hanging in his eyes, hands bound in front of him with rope. There was still a bruise high up on his cheekbone; his split lower lip was still healing. "I love you," she said, first in English, then in Korean. She had to know he understood her; she had to know that _he_ knew. "I love you, and I'll come back for you. I promise, I --

He lifted his bowed head just a little, just enough so that his dark eyes could meet hers. "Don't," he said, in Korean. "Don't come back. Don't ever come back here."

"Jin --" She took a step forward, reached out; Juliet's hand tightened on her shoulder.

"Don't come back," he said again, and dropped his head, and let the Others lead him away.

Sun could do nothing but stand on the dock and watch him walk away from her.

 

*

_now_

 

"Hey, Walt."

Walt looks up, sees Blaine slowly making his way over to the snack bar where Walt sits nursing a Coke and trying not to think about things he shouldn't be thinking about. It's the first time Walt's seen Blaine in person since Blaine left Dalton, and it's weird, seeing Blaine out of uniform. His shoulders are narrower without the blazer, his body more compact. With that, and with the crutches...

He could have run. If Walt hadn't gone to him, if Walt hadn't said --

But he did, and it's done, and maybe it's not fair but fair is for fairy tales. And this is not that kind of a story. Walt figured that out a long time ago.

"Hey, Blaine," Walt says, and goes back to staring at the menu board, even as Blaine carefully leans his crutches against the snack bar before settling onto a stool next to Walt's. He feels like he should say something else, but he has no idea what to say without that... _something_ putting words in his mouth. "I'm sorry," would probably be a start, but it doesn't seem strong enough. Probably because it's not, really.

"You're not in uniform," Blaine says -- Walt looks over at him, but now Blaine's staring at the menu board, or at least he's pretending to. "I kind of thought... You know, after what you said. About kicking our butts. So I guess I just figured that you were going to join the Warblers and be, like, epic, and --"

Walt manages to laugh a little, shaking his head. "Nah, man," he says. "No. I mean, I've been talking with that guy with the gavel -- you know, Wes -- and I'm thinking about it, but. Not right now. See if they can make it without me first." He gives Blaine a once-over while Blaine's still looking at the menu board. He's not wearing the same red shirt as the rest of the guys from New Directions, and he has his collar firmly buttoned, a bowtie on, sweater on top. There's no way he's performing. "How about you? I thought McKinley'd be all over that, getting the ex-lead of the Warblers on their team. They really wanna lose that badly?"

"I..." It's Blaine's turn to force a laugh out; he drops his eyes to the countertop, then glances sidelong at Walt. "I'm not... Their theme is _Dance_ , so." Blaine looks at the crutches, looks at his leg, looks back at Walt. "Not really something I can do, right now."

Walt just shrugs, makes himself keep smiling.

"Anyway, I'm not sure..." Blaine drums his fingers on the countertop. "There's going to be a lot of people in that crowd, and I just... I don't know who's going to be there. Or what's going to happen. And if anything does... I kind of don't want to be on the stage when it does. You know?"

"Yeah," Walt says, and tries not to feel too horribly guilty about it, because technically he is one of those people who shouldn't be watching Blaine, even if he doesn't mean to be. He doesn't belong, and he's dangerous and he doesn't like it, but he can't change it. "I mean... Yeah. I..."

And he's scrambling for something else to say when he feels a presence behind him. Charged, like static in the air, but not necessarily threatening. Just... strong.

Walt turns, and he looks, and there he is, Blaine's dad. Little guy, little glasses, high forehead. Sweater vest. He looks so normal, but he can't be; he was in that Room, after all, and even if he'd gone in normal, he wouldn't come out that way. No one does. Not even --

"I'm sorry to intrude," he says -- soft voice, gentle. One hand settles on Blaine's shoulder, protective; the other he extends to Walt. "You must be Walt."

"Yeah," Walt says; he hesitates for a second, and then takes Blaine's father's hand. He's half expecting something to happen, like a flash or a memory or something putting words in his mouth or a sudden deluge of birds, but it's -- It's weird; it's like he just sort of... bounces off. Like there's a wall between them, and Walt can't get through. "Yeah, it's --"

"It's nice to meet you too." The man smiles, and lets go of Walt's hand. He turns to Blaine, and there's something in the way he looks at his son, something so deep -- It makes Walt ache with how badly he misses his father.

His dad's been gone nearly a week now, and he hasn't even called. Why hasn't he called?

"We should get to our seats, Blaine. They're about to start."

"Right, yeah." Blaine flashes Walt a quick, apologetic little smile, then slides off his seat; his father has his crutches ready for him to tuck under his arms, like they've been practicing. Which they have been. Of course they have been. "I'll see you later, Walt."

"Yeah," Walt says, and feels _it_ for a second. It's not much information, but he has to share it; that's why he has it in the first place. "Yeah, you will."

Both Blaine and his father look at him funny for a second, then look at each other. "Well, then," Blaine's dad says. "I'm sure he'll look forward to it. Very nice meeting you, Walt."

Then they turn and walk towards the auditorium. It's not until they've passed through the doors that Walt sees the person who's been standing behind them -- Sun, with her baby cradled close in her arms. She meets his eyes, smiles slightly, gives him half a wave.

He waves back.

Then Sun vanishes through the doors, too, and Walt turns back to his Coke, gulps the rest of it down.

There's a thud as a bird slams into the glass doors of the theater.

 

*

 

_then_

 

She would have listened to him, once. She would have gone and never come back.

She hadn't stopped loving him -- the fisherman's son, the earnest young man in the ridiculous uniform standing outside the hotel, the boy who'd given her a white flower and promised to marry her. She loved that boy, and she always would. But that boy was gone; he had disappeared, the same way everyone who displeased Sun's father eventually disappeared. Her husband was a stranger now, his eyes hard and cold, blood on the cuffs of his neatly pressed shirts. He was her father's lackey, but not her husband, and Sun knew she could no longer stay with him.

So she made her plans. She learned to speak English; she reached out to those friends she thought she could still trust. The car that would pick her up at the airport in Sydney, the woman who would take her in once she left -- she arranged for all of it. All that she needed to do was to take those final steps, to turn and walk away from him for the last time.

But then, at 11:15, when she was supposed to be taking those first steps to freedom, she looked across the bustling airport and she saw him again -- the earnest young man, the fisherman's son. He held up a white flower and smiled at her, and Sun felt her heart breaking.

Everything Jin had done, he'd done for her. He'd gone to work for her father, he'd done everything her father had asked him to do, and he'd done it all for her. Because he loved her. Because he would sell his soul to be with her, if that was what it took.

Was she really going to leave him? Could she really do that to someone who loved her so much?

There was a car in the parking lot, waiting for her. All she had to do was turn and take a few more steps, and she would be free.

But she dropped her head and made her way slowly to her husband's side. Freedom would have to wait.

 

*

 

_now_

 

It's the first time Wes has really had a chance to see Blaine's face during a performance.

When Blaine first joined the Warblers, after the bullying at his old school (and everything else that had gone before it -- because Blaine's father is good at covering his tracks, but Wes's father is good at uncovering connections, and when Aunt Sun started to ask questions about Blaine and his father, so did the rest of the family), he hid himself away in the back row, knees bent as if to make himself even smaller, swaying out of time with the others so that his face was nearly always hidden. But the Warblers were good for Blaine; he crept out of his shell slowly, made his way to the front of the group with small, tentative steps, and once he was there, Wes only ever saw the back of his head, or at best his profile.

Which was really how Wes preferred it. The spotlight was good for Blaine, made him shine brighter. Wes has always been a little more at home just to the side, where the light is dimmer. Not in the shadows, of course, because he knows what happens there. Never completely out of the light. Just not entirely within it, either.

That being said, Wes can't help but enjoy the look on Blaine's face when Wes steps forward during the transition from "Life Support" to "I'll Cover You," the way Blaine's eyebrows raise up and his jaw drops a little bit when Wes launches into his first solo line. Wes isn't really interested in the rest of the crowd (although he does notice that Kurt leans into Blaine's shoulder, and also that the kid with the mohawk looks oddly like he's swooning every time David takes the lead), but Blaine isn't just another face in the crowd. Blaine is his friend, and his respect and admiration mean something. So Wes keeps his eyes on Blaine as he sings.

_I think they meant it_  
When they said you can't buy love  
Now I know you can rent it  
A new lease you are -- 

But then some movement, some familiar gesture, catches his eye, and Wes looks up, looking past Blaine, to where his Aunt Sun sits in the row right behind him, Ji Yeon in her lap.

He falters for the first time in years of performing, drops his note and almost loses his place. Then David grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him around so that they're singing directly to one another, and Wes scrapes his self-control together and does his job, because that's what they do in his family, they do their job. And he keeps singing.

_On life,  
Be my life --_

But as soon as he can, as soon as he's under control, he turns back to the audience. And this time, he keeps his eyes not on Blaine, but on the woman right behind him. On Sun.

He still isn't entirely certain that she means Blaine harm. And even if she does, she won't do anything here; Wes knows that. It's too public; there are too many people around, and Sun is her father's daughter -- clever, wary. She wouldn't risk herself unless the situation were absolutely desperate. Which it isn't.

Not yet, anyway.

But she's planning something. Wes doesn't know what it could be, but he knows she's planning something.

So he doesn't take his eyes off her, even as he slips back into the rest of the group for the reprise of "Seasons of Love." Half-hidden in the shadows, blending in amongst the other Warblers, he watches his Aunt Sun, and he waits.

 

*

 

_then_

 

She didn't know what was happening.

Everything was chaos, fire, noise -- people screaming, bleeding, running back and forth, calling out to each other. The air was hot and close and thick with foul-smelling smoke, and Sun didn't know what was happening; she didn't know what to do. She remembered the plane shaking, oxygen masks falling to dangle in front of their faces, Jin's hand latching tightly on to hers, squeezing her eyes tight shut. But it all seemed strangely disconnected from where she was now, standing in the sand, surrounded by people running and screaming. She didn't know what was happening.

She didn't know where her husband was.

She didn't know what to do.

Then she heard Jin calling her name, calling out for her, and before she even knew what she was doing, she turned and started running, trying to follow the sound of his voice, her shoes slipping off in the sand as she scrambled through the smoke and the crowd, frantic.

"Jin!" she cried out, her voice nearly drowned out by the whining of the airplane engines. "Jin!"

"Sun!" Her husband's voice, louder, nearer. "Sun! Where are you?"

She pushed past a crowd of people, and finally she saw him, a little higher on the beach, as if to see better over the crowd. His shirt was hanging loose, dirty with soot, and his eyes were reddened from the smoke, and he looked more frightened than Sun had ever seen him

Sun had never been more relieved to see anyone in her life.

She sprinted towards him, throwing herself at him, and he caught her and pulled her close.

"You're safe," he whispered into her hair. "You're safe now."

Sun buried her face in her husband's shoulder and clung to him.

 

*

 

_now_

 

It's a strange scene backstage after the winner has been announced, all forced good cheer and not-entirely-earnest congratulations. Rachel Berry, tears in her eyes, has cornered Blaine's friend Wesley in order to praise him lavishly on his solo in "I'll Cover You." And while at least three-quarters of her compliments are deserved, there's something horribly awkward about the way her too-bright smile keeps faltering, and her determinedly cheery voice keeps hitching in half-stifled sobs.

So it's not entirely surprising that Wes breaks apart from her as gently as he possibly can, making his way to the corner where Blaine has tucked himself and his conflicted loyalties out of sight.

But the dark-haired woman trailing after Wes, the one holding the baby, the one Ben shouldn't recognize but does anyway...

He hadn't expected her to reveal herself like this. It's interesting. She's interesting.

He squares his shoulders and schools his face into its most benign expression as Wes and the dark-haired woman approach.

The woman's eyes are fixed on Ben as she approaches them, and he can see it on her face, that moment of recognition. Then she smiles, bright and winsome and charming; and it's odd, but Ben can't help feeling a peculiar sort of satisfaction. The people Charles sent after him were either thugs or zealots. Michael was a half-hearted kidnapper at best, easily persuaded to change his plans, and Arzt was crude and clumsy, a boor. This woman is subtle, careful. _Interesting._ Ben isn't one to take chances, but he finds himself itching to know more, to figure her out.

But he doesn't address the woman immediately; that would be uncouth. Instead, he turns to Wes. "Congratulations," he says. "You were wonderful, Wesley. Fantastic job."

"Really great," Blaine adds, face shining with sincerity. He barely appears to notice the woman; his attention is on Wes. Whatever threat the woman poses to them, Blaine is unaware. "That was... I had no idea you could sing like that. I mean, not that I thought -- But you're always in the back, and I --"

"It's all right," Wes says, and rests a hand on Blaine's shoulder. But his gaze slips sideways to the woman next to him, his smile faltering a little bit. Blaine doesn't know that the woman is a threat, but Wesley does. Interesting. "And thank you. I -- Actually, have you seen Kurt at all? He was fantastic up there, and I wanted to --"

Wes is trying to pull the woman away; trying to protect Blaine, perhaps? Ben isn't inclined to let them slip away quite this easily, not just yet. "I don't believe we've been introduced," he says, turning to the woman. "I'm Blaine's father, Ben."

"It's very nice to meet you." They don't shake hands -- the baby in her arms is obviously more important, after all -- but when their eyes meet, the moment has the solemnity of a handshake. "I'm Wesley's Aunt Sun. And this," she adds, raising the baby a little, so Ben can see her sleeping face, "is my daughter. Ji Yeon."

"Uh oh," Blaine murmurs; Ben doesn't have to look over to see that his son is rolling his eyes. "Here we go."

Wes says nothing at all, but when Ben glances over at him, he sees that the boy's face has darkened a little, turned stern and wary. Ben gives him his brightest, most guileless smile, and then turns his eyes back to Ji Yeon.

"She's lovely," Ben says, and means it. He's had a soft spot for children since... Well, since he can't remember when. Of course, that's something that's been used against him more than once; in fact, one of Sun's associates tried it less than a month ago, and very nearly succeeded. But then Ji Yeon yawns, mouth wide and eyes scrunched tight shut, and it's very hard for him to stay on his guard. She's so... delicate. And precious. The promise of new life, with everything it has to offer. "How old is she?"

"A little over five months," Sun says, and when her gaze drops to the child in her arms, she smiles, too. It's different from the look she had when they first met -- softer, more private, and it's reassuring. Arzt was willing to use his own son as bait to lure Ben into a trap, heedless of what it would do to the boy. But Sun doesn't look as though she would do the same.

Which is why he's more than a little startled when she extends her arms, holding Ji Yeon out to him like an offering. "Would you like to hold her?"

It's a complicated gesture that she's making. Of course, with the child in his arms, Ben would find it hard to react to any sudden gestures on Sun's part. If she reached for Blaine, or pulled out a weapon, or tried anything at all, Ben would be caught with his hands metaphorically tied. On the other hand, he would have a hostage. And while Ben is relatively certain that, even if push came to shove, he wouldn't be capable of harming an infant... There are chances in life that a parent simply will not take.

Arzt may not have been very much of a parent, but Sun seems a little more dedicated to the role.

"Of course I would," Ben says. Very slowly, very cautiously (and giving Sun ample opportunity to change her mind), he reaches out and lifts Ji Yeon from her mother's arms, her head cradled in the crook of his arm, his hand spread to support her bottom. He pulls her in close to his chest, watching her face intently, but she doesn't seem upset to be out of her mother's hold. She yawns again, one fist waving in the air, and then subsides, curling up content in his arms.

When Ben looks back at Sun, she's still smiling, but there's just a hint of tension in the lines around her eyes.

"Awww." Blaine leans in as best he can, grinning down at Ji Yeon. "I think she likes you more than she likes me, Dad. I'm jealous."

Ben's breath catches for only a moment, a reflex he can't suppress. Of course, Blaine has been over to Wesley's house many times. Has been within this woman's grasp many, many times. But she hasn't touched him.

And now here she is, deliberately showing herself to Ben, even allowing him to take her child from her. Obviously, she must know that he would be extremely reluctant to hurt a child. But still, it's a risk. And Ben's not sure why she's taking it.

When he looks up, Sun's expression is sunny, cheerful. Almost innocent. "I think she likes you both," she says.

"Well," Ben says. It's not often he's caught with nothing to say, but it takes him a moment to come up with something more than that one word. "We're likeable people."

Sun's smile widens. Oh yes, she's very interesting. Perhaps Ben will have to find some reason to spend a little more time with her.

 

*

 

_then_

 

It was quieter at the caves than it had been in... Sun couldn't remember the last time it had been so quiet. Even when John had first led them to this place, there'd been so much chatter that Sun could hardly pick out the individual words:

_"-- been so thirsty--"_

_"-- don't you dare; I already claimed --"_

_"-- but what if someone does come, and we're --"_

But now Juliet and Claire were gone, and so many of the others were out searching for them. John and Boone; Kate, Charlie, and Sayid. Even Jin had volunteered, joining forces with Michael and Sawyer, the three of them finally united by their worry over Claire and her unborn child. And although Sun might've expected the remaining people at the caves to be talking, wondering, worrying -- there was instead this silence, hanging heavy in the air.

Then the silence was broken.

"Do you think they'll come back?"

Sun glanced over at the blonde girl -- Shannon, Boone's sister. It must have been worrisome for her, to have her brother wandering through the jungle with only one other companion in case things went wrong. But then, he was with John, and John was different. John was trustworthy. "I'm sure someone will find them soon," she said, and tried to smile. "And even if something does happen with Claire, with the baby, Juliet's a doctor, I'm sure she could --"

"I don't mean Juliet and Claire," Shannon said. She wrapped her arms around her knees, stared into the fire. "I mean... Everyone. My brother. Your husband. Sayid, Michael, Sawyer, Charlie, Kate... Everyone. Do you think they'll come back?"

"Of course they will," Sun said, eyebrows drawing together. "Why wouldn't they come back?"

"I just..." Shannon kept staring into the fire, intent. After a few moments of silence, Sun looked there, too, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that Shannon saw. But there was nothing but the flames. "I don't know," Shannon said. "I don't know why they wouldn't come back."

Sun watched her for a little while, before catching movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked up, saw Walt standing at the edge of the bonfire's light, in his oversized polo shirt and baggy shorts. He was staring at Shannon too. "I'm sure they'll all be back soon," Sun said, one more time.

In fact, Kate and Charlie were back the next day -- Charlie was pale, sweating, vomiting; Kate was practically carrying him. Almost as soon as they returned, Charlie crawled into one of the caves and stayed there for almost a week. He didn't come out until John dragged Boone back to camp on a makeshift stretcher. Boone's legs were crushed, his battered body already failing; even if Juliet had been there with them, there would have been nothing she could do.

Or perhaps she would have done exactly what Charlie did -- appearing from some secret place with a syringe in his hands, giving Boone the injection that quieted his labored breathing, stopped the restless murmurs, soothed him into his death while Shannon sobbed hysterically and clutched her brother's hand.

Not long after that, Walt disappeared.

But Jin never returned -- neither did Sawyer, nor Michael -- and so Sun alone was left to wonder, to worry, to dread.

 

 

*

 

_now_

 

"You're certain it's him?" Sun asks, voice pitched low so as not to disturb her daughter. "Here? He's here?"

"Absolutely," Sayid tells her, familiar voice strangely comforting. There's so little here that she knows. The Kims are kind, but they aren't her family, and she can't trust them, not really. She can't trust anyone. Sayid is, in his way, the only friend she has. "I've spoken to him myself. It is... Unmistakeable. He's here."

Sun takes a breath, lets it out, slowly. This is not the time for fear or anger or passion of any kind. Here, in this moment, she must be absolutely calm. "Will you speak to him again?"

"I don't suppose I have much choice," Sayid said. "To run now would be a difficult thing, with him here."

There's humor in his voice, but also longing; Sun knows that Sayid has thought of leaving many times, especially since Juliet vanished. But she also knows that he could not run, just as she herself cannot run. The price they would pay is too high.

It's a shame, really, that she can't spare him this. But there's no other way back to her husband. And she refuses to leave Jin behind.

"When you do," Sun says. "Tell him to contact me. Tell him... Tell him I have a plan."

There's a pause; Sun can almost see Sayid's eyebrow being raised. " _Do_ you have a plan?" he asks.

Sun glances up, sees Wesley standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his face shadowed and unreadable. She would spare him, too; she would spare all of them, if she could. But she cannot.

She knows that, now.

"Actually, Sayid?" She smiles, even though he cannot see her. "I think I do."

 

*

 

_then_

 

She was on her knees in the remnants of her little garden, sobbing hysterically, when they finally came for her.

"Looking for this?"

It was Juliet's voice; and when Sun pushed herself, still weeping, to her feet, it was Juliet she saw, standing alone at the edge of the garden, holding Sun's wedding ring in her outstretched hand. Juliet, who'd been so kind to her -- who, upon learning that Sun could speak English (and that her husband didn't know), volunteered to "teach" her, to give her an excuse for understanding what she shouldn't have understood, knowing what she shouldn't have known. Juliet, who'd spent so long in the garden with her, asking about her herbs, listening, learning. Juliet, who'd been so good to Claire, who'd been so understanding with Charlie, who'd even gentled Sawyer with her steadiness, her patience.

Juliet, who was one of Them. One of the Others.

"You have my husband," Sun said.

Juliet nodded. "Yes," she said. "Yes, we do."

"Is he --"

"He's safe and sound, I promise you." Juliet looked at Sun for a long time, the wedding ring still in her hand, her hand still outstretched. "You're not going to fight me, are you," she said, at last.

"No." Sun wiped at her eyes one last time, then squared her shoulders and stepped forward to take the ring from Juliet's outstretched hand. She slid it back onto her finger, where it belonged.

"Good." Juliet wrapped a sisterly arm around Sun's shoulders, and led her off into the jungle. "I'd hate to do anything that might hurt the baby, after all."

For a moment, just for a moment, Sun almost faltered. "How did you --"

Juliet just laughed; it was bitter, almost painful to hear. "Trust me," she said. "We know more than you think."

 

*

 

_now_

 

"Don't come back."

Those were the last words her husband said to her.

Sun was never a very obedient wife. Jin, of all people, should know that. She can't imagine it will be that much of a surprise, then, when she comes for him.

And she will come for him, no matter who she has to hurt to do it.  



	5. They Also Serve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Chris Hudson left his family, he left his responsibilities with them. And now it's their job to finish all the things he left undone.

She's read the e-mail so many times that she has it memorized by now.

She's reading it again, because she needs to remind herself that it's real, that this is finally happening.

_I couldn't help you, then, but I can now. I can tell you where he is. The question is, are you still looking?_

Nadia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and finally lets herself click the button to _REPLY._

 

*

 

"You okay?" Kurt's voice -- soft, concerned.

Whatever Finn answers, it's lost in the sound of plates being settled on the dining room table, silverware clinking as it's placed.

"Yeah," Kurt replies, but he sounds a little doubtful. "Yeah, I guess. Just... listen, if you need to talk, about anything --"

Carole strains to hear his reply, but there's nothing. After a few seconds, she sighs and goes back to mashing potatoes with maybe a little more force than she was using before.

It's just -- he's been so quiet, lately. Not just from this Sectionals thing, although obviously that's not helping, but even before that. It's honestly not so different from how he was when Quinn got pregnant and they thought the baby might be his. How he froze up with the fear, trying so hard to be okay when he so obviously wasn't. And he's not okay now, and Carole knows it, and there's still a part of her -- there will always be a part of her that wants to take him away from all of this.

Except she can't.

She could try, maybe, but she's pretty sure it would just... follow them.

_You can't walk away from this, Chris,_ she'd told him. _You can't just -- You have reponsibilities. To me, to Finn -- You can't just walk away from this. From us._

Except he'd found his way, hadn't he? He'd gotten out of all his responsibilities, in the end.

And now everything he'd left undone was left to her.

She'd been angry with Chris more than a few times since he died, but it had been a while. But right now --

Burt slips up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist. "You ready for this?" he asks.

Carole smiles. "Not even close," she says, quietly.

"Yeah," Burt says, and kisses her cheek. "Yeah, me too."

They stay like that for a few precious seconds, until the doorbell rings and Kurt's too-bright, too-cheerful "Welcome, welcome," breaks the stillness.

"Well," Burt says. "Ready or not."

Even after he's let go, she can feel the warmth of him, the solidity and strength.

She's still angry at Chris for leaving them the way he did. She still loves him, too. And she still misses him, every day. But never for one second is she anything but grateful for Burt Hummel's constant, steady presence in her life.

Maybe she's picking up Chris's slack, but at least she has someone to help her carry it.

 

*

 

She thinks about leaving for a moment -- when the door isn't answered immediately, when the banging inside continues unabated, she thinks about turning, walking down the stairs, walking away. She thinks about leaving.

And then she presses the doorbell again.

There's shouting -- a woman's voice -- and then the banging leaves off for a moment. That same voice calls out again, "I'm coming, I'm coming --" muffled through the thick door, and not long after, the door flies open. The woman on the other side of it looks exhausted, frizzy hair coming loose from her ponytail, jeans spattered with what Nadia can only hope is red paint, shirt untucked on one side, hanging loose. She might have been pretty once; she might be pretty now, with a little work. "Can I help you?" she asks, weary but still trying to be polite.

Before Nadia can answer, the banging starts up again -- wood against metal, rhythmic, almost like drumming.

"One sec," the woman sighs, and turns away from the door. "Finn! Finn, honey, not now!"

The answer, when it comes, is a joyous shout of "Wipeout!" followed by a childish voice singing "Da da da nah nah nah nah nah da da da nah nah nah nah nah --"

"Oh God." The woman slumps, a little, as though defeated. Then she slips out the door and closes it behind her, and the singing and the banging are muffled once more. "Sorry," the woman says, brushing tangled hair out of her face. "Sorry, he's... He's six, he's... He's going to be a drummer when he grows up, apparently. I -- How can I help you, Ms. --?"

"Jaseem," Nadia says, and holds her hand out. The woman takes it -- her hands are rough, dry. A mother's hands. "My name is Noor Jaseem, and I am looking for a..." She glances down at her notes. "A Mr. Christopher Hudson. Is this his house?"

When she looks up, the woman's expression has changed -- before, she looked tired, and strained, and annoyed, but there was still something, some warmth in her expression. Now the woman's face is hard. Cold. "Not anymore," she says, and turns to walk back into the house.

Nadia lurches forward when she sees the woman's hand on the doorknob. "Wait," she says. "Please. Has he moved? Has he -- I need to know where I can find him."

The woman doesn't turn back, but she doesn't open the door either. "Oakview Cemetary," she says, at last. "Northeast corner. Look for the little flag."

"I'm so sorry," Nadia breathes, rocking back on her heels. "I -- Did you know him?"

"I thought I did," the woman says, her voice cracking on the last word. "Guess I was wrong." She lets go of the doorknob then to wipe at her eyes; there's nothing Nadia can do but watch her, helpless. "So tell me," the woman finally manages to say, her voice barely steadier than it was before. "Noor Jaseem. Why are you looking for my husband?"

 

*

 

Dinner is, actually, very pleasant.

In retrospect, Carole isn't entirely sure why she's surprised. She _likes_ Ben and Blaine, after all; they all do, or they wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. They're exceedingly gracious dinner guests, all "please" and "thank you" and effusive praise for the cooking, the hospitality, everything around them. Even Finn unwinds after twenty minutes or so, looking up from his plate when Blaine compliments his dancing, his expression all surprise and pleasure (Kurt, thankfully, restrains himself to a tactful roll of the eyes). It's comfortable. Cozy, even.

Which Carole supposes is really for the best, considering.

They stretch it out as long as they can.

But then it's time for coffee (or Coke, in Finn's case), and the move to the living room. And Carole can't help but notice that Ben's dragging his left leg a little bit, and Ben being Ben, he notices that she's noticing, looks at her with that little, rueful smile. "I remember a time," he says, carefully easing himself down onto the sofa, "when I thought I was pretty good at hiding things from people."

"You're not bad," Carole says, handing him his mug -- he leans forward to take it from her, then settles back into the cushions with a wince. "We're just... Smarter than your average bears, I guess."

"So I've noticed." Ben's eyes focus on something a little behind Carole, and she steps aside instinctively, letting Blaine pass her on his way to the couch. Kurt's following barely a step behind; he and Blaine do a complicated little dance involving Blaine's crutches and the two cups of coffee in Kurt's hand that somehow ends with both of them sitting on the couch, coffee in their hands, and the crutches somehow behind them. Carole blinks at them, then turns to Ben; she can't help but notice that for just a moment, his smile is finally reaching his eyes. Only for a moment, and then Blaine shifts closer to him (that same look on his face that Carole saw when this was Ben's living room and his story to tell, that complicated mixture of trust and fear and worry that comes from a childhood spent trying to protect his only parent), and Ben's expression softens, turns serious.

Carole turns around then, takes her time making her way over to Christopher's old chair, where Burt's already enthroned, seemingly relaxed and comfortable. She doesn't look back until she's sure Ben's had time to recover his composure.

"All right," Ben says; when Carole looks up, she sees his face, steady and calm. "Shall we start with the bad news first?"

"Lemme guess," Burt says, voice so dry it could practically be Ben's. "You're the bad news."

This smile is the barest upward twist of his lips. "Always," Ben says; Carole supposes it's meant to sound like something of a promise or a threat, but mostly it just sounds tired. Ben takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and seems almost to droop, sinking into the couch cushions. _The man behind the curtain,_ Carole thinks. "All right," Ben says, softly. "All right then."

Blaine reaches out and tangles his fingers with his father's.

"I have a tumor," Ben says; he doesn't seem surprised when no one reacts, just keeps plowing ahead. "On my lower spine, the L4 vertebra. I am fortunate enough to be a good candidate for surgery -- not excellent, but good -- but as spinal surgeons don't just fall out of the sky when you need them, I won't be able to have that surgery until the 21st of December. Over a month from now. There's a procedure that will hopefully prevent the tumor from growing too much more; if that works, and if... If the surgery goes well, I should escape without too much nerve damage. And permanent paralysis seems... unlikely, at this point. But it can't be ruled out. Not yet."

There's a long, long silence; Blaine presses closer to his father; Kurt's knee grazes against Blaine's. Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the couch, Finn stares silently at the carpet. Only Ben looks back at Burt and Carole -- his eyes have never left them, barely even seeming to blink. His gaze is clear. Calm. Steady.

"All right," Burt says, echoing Ben. Carole wonders if they see it in each other, how alike they are. They probably don't. Burt's first wife, though, Annie -- she probably saw it. Probably the first thing she noticed, actually. "Look. I get this isn't your style, but -- Carole and me, and Kurt too, we've been looking at houses a little, here and there. And we found a place -- it's under foreclosure, short sale. Priced to move. Four bedrooms, so there'd be some sharing involved, but. It's got the ramp going up to the door, and everything's all set up. You know, accessible. 'Cause you're probably gonna need a chair, at least for the short term, so... just to make life a little easier, you understand."

"I'm tempted to ask you why you were so sure that I'd be using a wheelchair during my recovery," Ben says; he keeps his eyes on Burt, but Carole can't help but notice that his son's eyes are fixed right on Kurt. (Kurt, of course, is staring at his knees, now pulled close together, well away from Blaine's.) "But I suppose that's a conversation for another time, isn't it?"

"Probably," Burt agrees, his voice a little gravelly.

Blaine sways into Kurt, briefly knocking their shoulders together, and Kurt gives him a startled glance even as his tense posture relaxes, as he lets himself sink back into the couch cushions.

"We know you're not used to trusting people," Carole says, softly. "And we know what we're asking... It's a leap of faith. But with the two of you at less than a hundred percent, and with at least one of the Oceanic --"

"Two," Ben says, softly; Blaine gives his father an unhappy look. Not surprised, just... unhappy. "There's someone... I wasn't sure for a long time; she wasn't one of the names my contact passed on to me. But I've confirmed it now. She's one of them. So there's two Oceanic survivors in Lima. At least."

Blaine hunches in on himself, looking miserable, and Kurt presses his knee more deliberately against Blaine's this time.

Carole could ask Ben who the second Oceanic survivor is; she probably should, but she knows they're asking him to give up a lot right now, having him move in with them. It might be for the best, but he'd still be giving up a lot all at once -- his pride, his autonomy. If he needs to keep a few secrets, something to make the medicine go down easier, then that's what he needs to do.

Anyway, she feels like she and Burt have done pretty well with the patient approach; they've gotten a lot of information out of Ben so far. They'll get the rest in time.

"All the more reason to get you out of that house, then," she says. "Make it harder for people to find you."

Blaine sinks a little lower in his seat, the way Finn does when he's gotten caught doing something he shouldn't, and Ben's hand lands on his son's arm, quiet reassurance. Which is interesting.

She'll have to look into who Blaine's been talking to recently, just to see.

"It's a fair point," Ben says, inclining his head a little in acknowledgement.

"No one's asking you to make up your mind tonight," Burt adds, leaning in, hands folded in front of him. "We're probably gonna put an offer in on the house anyway, just 'cause it's a good price and Kurt likes the kitchen, but that doesn't mean you've gotta come along for the ride. Take your time, think it over."

"We will," Ben says, and squeezes Blaine's forearm. "We'll think about it. Thank you."

And Ben will think about it, too. When he's lying awake at night, listening to whatever noises his house makes, maybe wind in the trees outside the window or the creaking of old pipes. When he's listening for footsteps in the hallway and trying to figure out how long it would take him to get from his bed to the door, from the door to his son's bedroom, how much time he has to prevent the unimaginable. How much more time it would take him if he couldn't walk, if he had to get himself out of bed without using his legs, if he had to wrestle his uncooperative body into the chair and from there to the door, the hallway, to his son's room.

They're going to need a hospital bed for that spare room. It's a good thing Carole knows a lot of people in the medical supply business.

But it wouldn't be tactful to bring that up now, so she holds onto it for later.

"So," she says, and slides off her perch on the arm of Chris's old chair. "I suppose that means it's time for the good news."

She crosses over to the coffee table, picks up the folder she's left there, and slides out an old photograph, passing it to Ben. It doesn't take him more than a moment to figure out what he's looking at, not that Carole expected any less of him. After all, she'd figured it out pretty quickly herself, when Ben had been the one passing out photographs. And it had been ten years since the last time she'd seen that face, not three weeks.

"Sayid Jarrah," Ben says, softly; his eyes linger on the picture, as though looking for something. Then he looks up at Carole, owlish and solemn behind his glasses. "I hate to be the doubting Thomas in the room, Carole, but I'm having a hard time imagining a situation where this man is good news to anyone."

"Actually," Carole says, "I can think of at least one woman who would disagree with you."

 

*

 

Carole curls her hands around the mug of coffee in front of her on the table. There's a pause, as though she's gathering her thoughts -- in the silence, Nadia can hear Carole's son playing in his room, banging rhythmically on the wall and singing.

_Born in the USA, I was  
Booooorn in the USA_

Then Carole takes a breath, reaches out, and turns the picture towards her. She studies it for a moment.

"His name is Sayid Jarrah," Nadia says. "He worked with your husband for a little while, translating --"

"He didn't work with my husband," Carole retorts, and covers the picture with her hand. "That's a Republican Guard uniform he's wearing, which means he was an enemy combatant, which means that any translating he did for my husband, he didn't exactly volunteer for it."

Carole looks up, then, and her eyes meet Nadia's, and Nadia remembers what it felt like when she first accepted that the rumors were true, that the little boy she'd pushed in the mud as a child had grown up to become a torturer.

"I don't -- He never told me," Carole adds, eyes dropping back down to the table, to the picture underneath her hands. "What he did over there... He could never even speak about it. But I guess he didn't have to. Just the look on his face, whenever it came up. And then that Kelvin Inman, coming around, looking for him. And it was obvious what sort of a man he was. What he would have done. What he would have made Chris do. And I --" Her voice breaks off, and she presses her clenched fist against her lips, forcing the words back.

Nadia doesn't speak. There's nothing for her to say.

"But it doesn't matter anymore," Carole continues. "Because he's gone. Chris is _gone_ , and he's not coming back. And your friend Sayid hasn't come looking for him, and I hope he never does, because I can't imagine any good would come of it. Because Chris never recovered from what he did, over there, and I'm sorry but I'm having a very, very hard time believing that your friend Sayid handled it any better."

Nadia wonders, distantly, how Carole's husband might have died, but it's none of her business.

"You're right," she says, and wraps her hands around her own mug of coffee. "Sayid was a prisoner of your military. For some time. But that doesn't mean --"

And there she hesitates, just for a moment, to consider. She hadn't planned on telling Carole anything about herself; she hadn't planned on telling anyone, really. It was a part of her life, one that she shared with Sayid, and therefore relevant to the discussion, but... Some wounds heal slowly, if they heal at all, and Nadia knew she was still recovering. But it is the only way she can think of to truly explain why Sayid might have come to this place, why he might have trusted Carole's husband even if she could no longer trust him herself. And it's too late to walk away now.

She looks up at Carole, who is watching her with a furrowed brow. "When I was a prisoner," Nadia explains. "Which I was, many times. When I was a prisoner of my own government, I was treated very badly. Not only in the interrogations, which I would prefer not to discuss, but. My food was thrown on the ground before I could eat it. I was pushed, dragged around, shouted at. I never once heard a gentle tone of voice from my captors.

"But then, the last time, there was Sayid. And he was... different."

Carole raises both her eyebrows. "I'm listening," she says.

 

*

 

"I don't know what the situation was over there, most of the time."

It's tricky business, trying to figure out how to be accurate without saying too much, but it's not like Carole doesn't have some experience. Never lying, not exactly, just... choosing her words carefully, sticking within the bounds of the truth without laying it all on the line. It's not like Finn's not old enough to know by now, but this isn't the time. Not when he needs to believe his father was brave, not when he needs to believe that that same bravery is in him, too. Later, maybe, when this is all over with, when Finn's proven himself to himself, when he's sure. Not right now.

"I don't -- I don't think it was Abu Ghraib, or anything, but I doubt it was pleasant, either. It was war. No matter what Congress called it... it was war. And war is a terrible business to be involved in. But the thing about rotten circumstances is that, when it's all done, what stands out the most are the small kindnesses." She glances away from Finn for just a moment, looks to Ben; he nods back at her, the smallest of small smiles on his face. "When the manager at the corner grocery store agrees to hold your checks until Friday so you won't have to deal with the overdraft fees, or when the local Unitarian Fellowship sends people out to mow your lawn every week for a year just because. Or, maybe, when your friend Tom leaves you a gun so you'll have it when you need it."

Ben's smile widens infinitesimally at that.

"Chris stood out for Sayid." She turns back to Finn, still staring at the floor, face hidden. She has no idea whether or not she's getting through; all she can do is hope that he gets it. That in this, at least, she has never lied. "I don't know why, exactly, but I know him well enough to imagine. Chris was kind, always. Fair. A good man. He wouldn't... There was never any cruelty in him. Not in him.

"Whatever happened to Sayid when he was a prisoner of the Americans, whatever they did to him or made him do, Chris tried to help him. I know that. I know it, because I know that when the war was over and Sayid returned to the Republican Guard, he took those small kindnesses with him. And when a woman named Noor was brought to him for questioning -- a woman who had been accused of terrible things, a woman who should have been his enemy -- he treated her fairly. Without cruelty. The way that Chris treated him.

"Of course, Chris knew he was going to be letting Sayid go sooner or later. I won't say we did everything perfectly over there, but they weren't executing prisoners right and left. The Republican Guard... They worked a little differently. Noor wasn't ever supposed to walk out of that prison once she was brought in. Either she would confess and be executed for her crimes, or she wouldn't, and they'd kill her for not confessing. She was never supposed to survive, and she certainly wasn't supposed to be set free.

"But Sayid let her go. Knowing that he could be held responsible, knowing that he could be punished, that his family could be punished -- he set her free. Because it was the right thing to do. Because it was what Chris would have done for him, if he'd had to."

Ben's gaze drifts away from Carole -- he stares into empty space for some time, lost in thought. "And you think that... Sayid could be induced to do the same with Blaine and myself," he says, softly. "That he would be willing to let us go."

"I think..." Carole takes a deep breath and braces herself for the firestorm. "I think if the right people were to talk to him, it's a possibility."

She can _feel_ Burt going tense in his chair behind her, and Finn's shoulders bunch up almost to his ears.

"And by 'the right people'," Ben continues, eyes narrowing, "I suppose you mean yourself and Noor, don't you?"

Finn looks at his mother, eyes wide, and for the first time, Carole struggles to find the right words.

 

*

 

"He's not a bad person," Nadia says, seeing the doubt in Carole's eyes. "I know what he's done, and I know... But there is still a goodness in him. I saw it. That is what saved my life, that goodness."

"How do you know it wasn't just guilt?" Carole asks, and it's more than just doubt. It's exhaustion. She must be so tired by now, so tired of fighting.

Nadia can't stop the war within Carole's heart; the best she can hope for is to give a little assistance to the right side. She reaches across the table, her hands closing around one of Carole's. Carole stares at her, but she doesn't pull away. "Because I know," she says, softly. "Just as I know your Christopher was a good man, whatever circumstances might have led him to. He was a good man, too."

Carole's eyes flood with tears, and she wipes them away with the back of one hand.

Behind her, a small boy stands in the doorway, watching them with wide eyes.

"He was a good man," Nadia repeats. "And he taught Sayid to be a good man, to do the right thing, and I am forever grateful to him for that."

 

*

 

"We're not done talking about this," Burt says, much later. His arm is wrapped firm around Carole's waist, and her ear is pressed to his chest, as if she could somehow hear any remaining problems with his heart. "I didn't marry you just so I could bury you a month later. You do realize that, right?"

She almost buried Burt before she got the chance to marry him, but she's too polite to point that out.

"I know we're not," she says, instead. "But in the end, Burt, it's going to need to be someone Sayid thinks he can trust. Someone who isn't a threat to him. And someone with... a personal connection. You've got no connection to him, and you're definitely a threat. He knows too much about Ben to think he's harmless, even if he is in a wheelchair. I'm the only person over eighteen remotely qualified for the job. You're going to have to trust me with this."

He kisses her hair, tightens the arm that's wrapped around her. "Trusting you isn't the problem, Carole. The man's a killer. I don't want him anywhere near you."

Carole sighs and toys with the hem of his t-shirt. "And I don't want him anywhere near you," she points out. "I know you're used to being the one in charge, Burt, the one who takes care of people. But so am I. You're not happy about me being in danger, and that's fine. But if you honestly expect me to just roll over and let you put yourself in harm's way because you think you're protecting me? You've got another thing coming."

"No one pushes the Hummels around, Carole," Burt reminds her.

"I took your name, Burt."

Burt huffs; it almost sounds like a laugh, but Carole's not fooled. "Well, at least we're not fighting over something stupid like the plumbing," he mutters.

"If only." Carole doesn't let go of him, though, and he doesn't let go of her. "We're not done talking about this," she concedes, finally. "But if Noor was right about him, Burt, if there's more to him than just a file full of people he's killed? Then she and I have a better chance of getting through to him than anyone else. At least, anyone I care to risk."

"And if you're wrong about him?" Burt asks.

Carole can't help the small, wry smile that twists her lips. "Assuming Ben's out of the hospital at that point," she says, "and he's capable of holding down the fort, then we'll leave him with the kids and you can come hide in the closet with a shotgun. Just in case."

"Lot of assumptions," Burt murmurs, softly.

"Ben's got good doctors," Carole says, and wishes she could go further. But that's as far as she can go, as far as she knows.

She wonders if she could get a gander at his medical records. That might give her some idea of what to expect. She does work for the radiology department, she could make up _something_ , she's sure --

"But this Jarrah guy," Burt says, at last. "Everything he's done, everything that was in that file -- you really think there could be any good left in him? At all?"

Carole just shrugs. "I'm sure Jarrah's got a file on Ben, too," she says. "And I bet you it looks pretty bad. We know it's different, because we know Ben's side of the story. Maybe if we know Sayid Jarrah's side of the story, we'd feel a little differently. All we can do is try, Burt."

Another huff, and Burt's arm tightens even further around her waist. "This isn't over," he says.

It was over the moment Noor Jaseem arrived on Carole's doorstep, over the moment Noor _chose_ Carole. But Carole's too polite to point that out, too, so she just holds her husband tightly and listens to his heart beating and says nothing at all.

 

*

 

Across the table, Carole tries to clean the tears from her face, one-handed, but they keep streaming down.

"I loved him," she whispers, clinging to Nadia with her other hand, and Nadia holds her tightly, doesn't let go. "I loved him so much, and then he was gone, and then he came back, and he was just... He was such a good man, before he left, and then after, he was -- He was --"

"He was still a good man," Nadia tells her, and looks up again, at the boy looking back at her from the doorway. "If he wasn't, I wouldn't be here now."

Carole says nothing, and after a while, she pulls away, and straightens, and tries to smile.

"I'm sorry," she says, at last. "I'm sorry, I -- I wish I had better news for you. I truly do. But... But there's nothing for you here. I'm sorry."

When Nadia looks back at the doorway, the boy she saw there is gone.

"I hope you find your soldier someday," Carole continues. "But mine..." Her smile falters, fades away. She raises her eyes to the ceiling as if to forestall a fresh flood of tears, and it's a long time before she's able to look down. Nadia aches for her. "Mine's gone. And he's been gone for a long, long time."

"I'm sorry, too," Nadia says. She reaches out and touches Carole's hand again, and hopes it's something that stays after she's gone. A memory of a helping hand in a troubled time, a kind word in a harsh world. "Perhaps you will see him again, in another world than this."

"Maybe," Carole says, but Nadia's words must have touched something within her, because for once, her smile is genuine.

When Nadia goes, she leaves the picture of Sayid behind.

 

*

 

He waits until the entire house is hushed and still, everyone sound asleep, before he slides out of bed and goes digging through his underwear drawer. The letter is hidden behind some black socks he never wears, underneath a pair of plaid boxer shorts that are way too short for him now. The envelope's a little creased, the ink a little faded, but it's still legible.

He carries it back to his bed, turns on the lamp, and sits down to read it one more time.

*

 

_I couldn't help you, then, but I can now. I can tell you where he is. The question is, are you still looking?_

Nadia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and finally lets herself click the button to _REPLY_.

_I never stopped looking._

_Tell me where he is, and I'll be there tomorrow._

And then she hits _SEND._

She's done it. She's found him.


	6. Shall Not Walk Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart.

_Battered and torn,  
Still I can see the light_

 

*

 

Monday morning, Blaine's father nearly falls in the kitchen.

Twice.

Before breakfast is ready.

The third time his leg tries to go out from under him, he clutches the back of his chair with both hands, knuckles turning white, looks at Blaine, and says, as calmly as he can, "I think perhaps you'd better see if Kurt is willing to pick us up on his way to school today." There's a pause, and then he adds, "Also, there's a... an old walking stick in the closet in my bedroom. If you could just go get that for me."

"Dad," Blaine says, and that's all he can choke out, because the surgery is still a month away and now his father can't put any weight on his left leg at all, and it's never been like this before; every time something's gone wrong, Blaine's been able to pick up the slack -- maybe he had help from Tom and Miss Eloise when he was littler, but even then he could do so much more, and now he's on these crutches, and he won't be off them for weeks yet, not until his muscles start to knit together again, and --

"It's going to be okay, Blaine," his father says, blue eyes steady on Blaine, never faltering. "For all we know, this is temporary. Just a... A warning shot. And if it's not... Well. I'm sure the Hummel-Hudsons already have a contingency plan for that."

Blaine forces himself to breathe, to nod. Because they do have the Hummels, and the Hudsons too. Blaine's not sure he likes that, using them like that (although maybe he shouldn't think of it as using them when they've already made it clear they want to be useful -- that they _will_ be useful, no matter what Blaine or his dad wants them to do), but he's not going to see his father sent back to the Island because of his own stupid pride. "Okay," Blaine says, and musters up a little smile for his father, and lifts himself carefully out of his chair. His crutches are within easy reach, but he doesn't grab them -- he won't be able to carry the walking stick with his crutches under his arms, and his father's room isn't far. If he puts just a little weight on his injured leg, just using his toes for balance, and if he holds onto the wall, he can make it. "Okay, Dad. I'll... I'll be right back."

He can hear his father's breath catch as he starts hopping his way out of the kitchen; he sees the look on his father's face, like he wants to reach out, to help him. But his father doesn't reach out after all, because he can't.

It's up to Blaine to be the strong one, today.

 

*

 

_Tattered and worn,  
But I must kneel to fight_

 

*

 

"If Karofsky came back to this school right now," Brittany says, softly, watching Mr. Anderson make his way down the hallway, leaning heavily on his walking stick, Blaine crutching along two steps behind, "what do you think would happen?"

Karofsky was only in jail for three days, just until his mom got enough money to bail him out. He has an ankle monitor on, but that doesn't mean much. His house is close enough to the school that he could be here in ten minutes. He could be here before anyone realized he was gone. And yeah, there are metal detectors, and armed guards, but if he had something hidden in the building, somewhere it didn't get found --

"Is that what's going to happen?" Artie asks. "Karofksy's going to come back?"

"No," Brittany says, and starts pushing him down the hallway, keeping Blaine and Mr. Anderson in sight. "He's not."

It's not really reassuring. "So if Karofsky's not coming," Artie says, slowly, "then why --"

He wants Brittany to say that no one's coming. He wants her to say they've already stopped it. He really, really wants to hear that.

"Someone else is coming," Brittany says, and okay, that's basically the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear. It's not surprising, but still. "And she's a lot worse."

 

 

*

 

_Friend of mine,  
What can't you spare?_

 

*

 

Neither Preppy nor Lady Hummel show up for lunch. Santana assumes they're holed up in some classroom hugging each other and crying, and the thing is, that's not even her making fun of them. It's basically the only logical, rational thing for them to be doing at this point.

Seriously, it's not like she actually believes in the whole spooky magic Island story or anything, not really, and she definitely doesn't believe in fate, but -- If it's not over, if there really are still people coming after Blaine and Mr. A, then the fact that neither of them can walk worth a damn is kind of a serious problem.

"Kurt said he thought Blaine's dad might be sick," Mercedes says, picking the sesame seeds off her burger's bun, one at a time, "but... I don't think he knew it was this bad. I wonder if Blaine even knew it was this bad."

Nurse Juliet knew. Or, Doctor Juliet, apparently. Whichever. But she did know about the tumor; that's the one thing Santana does totally believe. She doesn't think Juliet caused it, because that's some serious sci-fi weirdness, but she knew. And she probably used it, too. Talked to Mr. A about it, gave him advice, referred him to doctors, got him to _trust_ her --

Santana should be impressed. Honestly, she kind of is impressed. But it's not going to stop her going all Lima Heights on Nurse Dr. Whatever Juliet if she ever gets the chance to. Not because she's the biggest fan of Mr. A and his huge creepy eyes and his vest collection that's actually worse than Mr. Schue's, but...

Whatever. It's her school, there was a gun to her head, it's personal.

Santana looks down the table, where Finn's sitting and staring at his plate. Rachel's not with him today; neither is Puck. Finn doesn't seem to notice, doesn't seem to care. Which, again, whatever. It's not like Santana cares about him, either.

It's not like she cares about any of this. At all.

Nurse Juliet's still dead, though.

"I feel so bad for him," Tina says. "I mean, he's hurt, his dad's sick, he's at this new school and he barely knows anyone --"

"And now he's not even going to have glee club," Mercedes finishes.

Brittany looks up at Mercedes, blinking. She's been doing that a lot, lately, almost like she's fallen asleep and then sort of... woken up. Maybe she's on some kind of new medication? She hadn't said anything to Santana, but then she doesn't always know, or she does know but she forgets. Her parents would know; they'd tell Santana, if she asked. "What do you mean?" Brittany asks. "Of course he has glee club; we promised, remember? You were the first one; you said you weren't going anywhere. You can't leave now, Mercedes. Blaine needs us."

"What?" Mercedes shakes her head, like Brittany's just said something completely absurd, and okay maybe some of it doesn't make that much sense, but still. Brittany's memory is a weird thing, and sometimes she remembers things other people don't, and just because Mercedes (and maybe Santana) doesn't remember what she's saying doesn't mean -- "Britt, honey, it's not like I want to leave. But we can't have glee club if we lose at Sectionals, remember? Those were Coach Sue's conditions."

"No, Coach Sue's conditions were that _Mr. Schuester_ can't have a glee club if he loses at Sectionals. We can have as many glee clubs as we want to, if we want them. We just have agree that we want to stay." She looks at Santana, as if expecting backup. "We do want to stay, don't we?"

"Of course we do," Santana says, quickly. "Of course. If... I mean, if that's what Coach Sue... But, I mean, she could say something like that." Which is, in theory, technically totally true. Coach Sue could say absolutely anything. Sometimes, she even does. "And if she does, I'm sure we'd all say --"

"She already did." Brittany beams at Santana, then turns her smile on Mercedes. "Mr. Schue knows. He'll tell you all about it. You'll see."

Mercedes just shakes her head again, goes back to picking the seeds off her burger. "It'd take a miracle," she murmurs.

"Well, miracles do happen," Artie says, but the tone of his voice is weird -- it's not skeptical, exactly, just... weird. He looks at Brittany in this funny way that Santana doesn't totally like, but she can't explain why.

Some days, she's not sure what's worse -- the fact that she knows things that other people don't know, or the fact that other people still know things that she doesn't know.

Some days, she's pretty sure they're both about equal.

And they both suck.

 

*

 

_I know sometimes  
It gets cold in there_

 

*

 

"It wasn't in her back at first," Kurt explains, his voice a little choked, but he's doing better than Blaine, whose breath is still hitching in that weird, sobbing way. "But it... It spread. They did their best. I mean, they did try. But..." But he can't talk about the rest of it, is the thing, because his mother had cancer and Blaine's father does not have cancer; Blaine's father is going to be _fine_. So Kurt doesn't talk about the rest of that. What he says instead is, "I always wanted to be the one to push her in her chair, but I wasn't very strong and I wasn't tall enough to see over the top anyway, so my dad would sort of crowd in behind me and put his hands over mine, and --"

There's a tap at the door of the astronomy room, and Blaine tenses up, but Kurt doesn't let go of him. He probably should -- the way this week is going, he wouldn't be surprised if it were actual Hostiles from Blaine's Island, guns and polar bears and all. But the thing is, he doesn't care anymore. Maybe it's all real, probably it's all real. And it's not like _that_ is something Kurt's okay with. But it's not anything he can control, either. What he can control is whether or not Blaine has to deal with all of this alone.

And he's not letting that happen. Not ever.

So Kurt just pulls Blaine back in closer and calls out, "This one's occupied. Try the third floor janitor closet. I hear the ambience is great in there."

Blaine lets out a wet, hiccuping laugh into Kurt's tear-soaked shirt, and Kurt rubs Blaine's back and waits for the sound of footsteps walking away.

Instead, what he gets is, "It's Rachel."

Kurt groans, and thumps his head back against the desk, because. Seriously?

"Look, can I please just... Just for a second? I have something I need to say." There's a pause, and then Rachel adds, "I promise it's not crazy this time."

But Kurt waits until he feels Blaine nodding against his chest, hears the almost inaudible murmur of, "It's okay, Kurt," before he finally gives in.

"Just for a second," he says, pitching it just loud enough to be heard.

The door opens, letting a stream of light into the dim room; then it's closed again. From his seat on the floor by the teacher's desk, Kurt can see Rachel's legs, the way she sidesteps towards the light switch, then hesitates. "I'd prefer it if you didn't do that," he says. "I'm afraid we're both a bit blotchy right now."

"Kurt?" The legs take a step forward -- she's wearing patterned tights again today, maybe plaid? Sometimes Kurt wonders why Rachel never wears pants, but then he remembers the pantsuit, last year, and has to fight to suppress a shudder. "Where... Where are you?"

"Down here." He stretches one hand up, wiggles his fingers, and then immediately drops it back down to wrap it around Blaine's shoulders again.

"Why are you --" Rachel comes towards them slowly, cautiously -- when she sees the two of them, she just stares, jaw dropped. It occurs to Kurt, a little too late, just how intimate this position is -- Blaine curled up against Kurt's chest, their legs touching. He's not in Kurt's lap this time, at least, but it's a lot of affection for a public place. Rachel does have her sensitive moments, however, and thankfully this seems to be one of them. She doesn't say anything, just crouches down a little ways away and asks, softly, "Are you okay?"

"I've had better days," Blaine manages, and lets out another wet laugh, and Kurt goes back to rubbing small circles between Blaine's shoulderblades.

Rachel tips her head to the side; it's clear she wants to reach out and touch, but she doesn't. Instead, she takes a deep breath and says, "I'm not going to volunteer to sing for you if you don't want me to, and I... I won't pray for you, if you're not religious. But I could hug you, if you wanted." She glances at Kurt, whose arms are still wrapped tight around Blaine's shoulders, and then adds, "Although if you don't need a hug, right now, that's okay too. I could save it for later, maybe."

Blaine hesitates for a second, and then he very slowly and carefully peels himself away from Kurt's chest, blinking. His eyes are already swollen halfway shut, his nose red and running, and bless Rachel's selfish little gold-star Broadway Baby heart, because she doesn't hesitate for a second before holding her arms out. Blaine topples into them, the two of them hugging awkwardly over Kurt's lap.

Kurt wonders if he should just wrap his arms around the both of them, but it seems vaguely creepy and not entirely comfortable, so he just lets them be.

"I know I'm selfish," Rachel says, and Blaine makes a soft choking sound that might be protest or agreement; Kurt's not entirely sure. "And I know I think too much about competitions and winning, and I know I don't always... I know I'm not always a good friend. But I'm willing to try, if you'll let me."

Blaine may or may not say anything; maybe he mumbles something into Rachel's neck, or maybe he just nods. But after a little while, she lets go, and lets Blaine sink back into Kurt's hold again.

"Today is probably our final glee practice," Rachel says, and Kurt doesn't interrupt her, but he can feel the cringing start. "I... I think we'd all understand if, under the circumstances, you weren't there. But if you... if you wanted to be there. We'd all be really happy to see you." There's a pause, and then she adds, "And if not, Finn and I have already spoken to everyone and we've all agreed that we're going to keep up the Secret Service patrols and also have informal glee club meetings once a week, if not more often, so. This isn't goodbye. Not from me, not from... Not from any of us, okay? You're not alone. I promise."

"Thank you," Blaine says, voice shaking, and Rachel turns to go.

Kurt snags her hand and stops her. "Thank you, Rachel," he says, a little steadier.

She gives him a tentative smile. "Puck's guarding the door," she says. "Because he doesn't have class with Mr. Anderson, so Mr. Anderson won't know that he's missing and get suspicious. And the classes he does have, teachers don't actually expect to see him anyway. So you can stay as long as you need to. He'll be right there."

And then she slips out of Kurt's loose hold, and hurries out of the room, smoothing down her skirt.

"We should probably go," Blaine sighs, even as his arms wrap around Kurt's waist. "We're gonna miss class."

"Didn't you hear Rachel?" Kurt asks, and he can't quite keep the fond exasperation out of his voice, but at least Blaine doesn't seem to take it personally; if anything, he cuddles in closer. "She just said --"

"Which means that lunch is almost over, which means we're gonna miss class," Blaine repeats; his voice is steadier now, but Kurt knows what Blaine looks like -- he knows Blaine's a mess, which means someone's going to say something as soon as Blaine gets out in the hall, which means he's going to start crying again.

So he wraps both arms around Blaine and pulls him in closer, and says, "But that doesn't mean we need to go. Not if you need to stay here and catch your breath. And not... Not if you need me to stay with you."

And sure enough, Blaine's breath hitches in a little sob and he buries his face in Kurt's chest again.

And Kurt holds on to him and doesn't let go.

He's not leaving Blaine alone. Not ever.

 

*

 

_When my legs no longer carry,  
And the warm wind chills my bones_

 

*

 

They're all there in the choir room, even Blaine -- his eyes are puffy and red-rimmed and he's visibly leaning on Kurt for support, his hands clasped between Kurt's -- but he's there when Will walks into the room, shuts the door, and slowly turns to face them.

He shouldn't feel grateful for this, for Blaine's tear-stained face and his father leaning heavily on his walking stick, left leg dragging behind him. But the honest fact of the matter is that there's simply no way Sue would have changed her mind if it wasn't for this. If she hadn't already felt guilty for what happened to Blaine (and to be fair, she deserved to feel guilty about it because it was absolutely her fault); if this latest bout of calamity hadn't fallen on Blaine and his father and with such spectacular timing...

There's a lesson on silver linings here. He'll wait to give it, of course; it would be tactless now. But that doesn't mean he can't store up the anecdote for later.

"First of all," he says, pulling a chair from the far corner of the room and settling himself down onto it -- bringing himself to the kids' level, eye-to-eye, "I wanted to make something very clear. I know that last year, we were told that the glee club would be disbanded if we couldn't win at competitions. But that was last year. This is this year. I've talked to Figgins, and he's promised me that as long as you guys want to have a glee club, we're going to have a glee club. And as far as Coach Sylvester goes, she's..." He glances over at Blaine, then looks away again before the boy gets too uncomfortable. "She's got different priorities now. So there's no need to worry about her trying to get rid of us. That's over and done with. Ancient history."

"I guess miracles really do happen," Mercedes murmurs, looking over at Brittany; Brittany just blinks back at her.

"Now, I realize that it might seem like there's no point in meeting or in rehearsing if there's no competitions left for us to prepare for," Will adds, leaning in a little bit. "But what you guys have shown me, especially over these last few months, is that there's so much more to this group than just competitions. You've really come together, not just as a team, but as a family. You look out for one another. You support each other. And right now, we've got someone in the group who could use some extra support." Blaine ducks his head -- Quinn, sitting in the row above him, leans down to touch his shoulder. "And I probably don't even need to ask you guys this, because I'd like to think I already know what the answer is, but --"

Mercedes shakes her head, rising from her seat. "Don't even finish that sentence, Mr. Schue," she says, raising one hand as if to keep him silent. "Look, I don't know about the rest of you guys, but I have been through too much with this group to even think about leaving now. Way I see it, this is just extra time for us to get ready for next year."

"I completely agree with Mercedes," Rachel says, but there's no manic gleam in her eyes, and she doesn't pop to her feet like she might usually do. "And I agree with Finn."

Finn looks at her, bewildered. "But I haven't --"

"Last week," Rachel explains. "You said there were more important things than competitions. And you're right. This is... _We_ are more important than winning. And as long as we still have each other, then... Then that's what matters most."

Quinn smiles and squeezes Blaine's shoulder. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but... Rachel's right. And Finn, I guess. If Sue's willing to give up her insane vendetta and let us stick together, then... Then I'm staying."

There's a general murmur of agreement at that; even Santana nods, although the moment she catches Mr. Schue looking at her, she lifts her chin and turns away.

"Thank you, guys," Mr. Schue says, and pushes himself up from his chair. "Um. I think this is usually the moment where one of us would come forward with a song, if... if anyone's got something in their back pocket." He looks up at Rachel, still sitting primly in her seat, but she stays silent.

Instead, Blaine's the one who speaks up. "Mr. Schuester?" he asks, still a little shy-sounding. Kurt squeezes his hands, as if shoring him up. "I... I didn't take the opportunity, when I first joined, to... to sing something for the group. But I'd like to do that now. If that's all right."

"Of course," Will says, and steps back out of the way, dragging his chair with him. He's not entirely surprised that Kurt is the one who actually stands up first, pulling Blaine up after. And Blaine doesn't even bother reaching for his crutches -- he just lets Kurt slip an arm around his waist and help him to the piano. Kurt even sits down next to him. And it's funny, really, because Will's pretty sure that Kurt would go crazy if someone were coddling him like this. But Blaine is obviously not Kurt, because he just quietly accepts it, even gives Kurt a little, grateful smile when they're settled together at the piano.

Then Blaine looks back at the rest of the glee club, all watching him. "I..." He stops, ducks his head, then looks up again, sheepishly. "Um. I don't really know how to say... So I'm just going to let the music speak for me, if that's okay."

Another murmur of assent from the group, and Blaine drops his eyes to the keys of the piano.

Then he takes a breath and begins to play.

 

*

 

_I reach for mother Mary  
And I shall not walk alone_

 

*

 

"It's a little on the nose, don't you think?" Holly asks; she doesn't take her hand away from Ben's elbow, though.

Nor does he make her, even though he's holding himself upright well enough right now. He just stands in the hallway outside the choir room and listens to his son's voice, muffled through the door.

_While we're apart_  
Only tears  
Speak from my heart 

"Mrs. Kwon's waiting, you know," Holly adds.

But she doesn't try to pull him away.

"She can wait a little longer," Ben says, and stays where he is, and lets Holly hold onto his elbow, lets her help hold him up.

_And when I'm tired and weary_  
And a long, long way from home  
I reach for mother Mary  
And I shall not walk alone. 


	7. All the Best Daddies Have Cowboy Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then he showed up in Australia to come get his son only to find a sulky kid entering a brutal phase of adolescence who didn't remember him, who'd never gotten any of his letters or cards, who didn't want to go to New York or see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade or eat anyone's cornbread stuffing. And he couldn't seem to talk to the boy and the boy definitely didn't want to talk to him, and he was already having some serious second thoughts by the time they got to the airport to catch Oceanic 815 back to L.A. Like, sending the boy to Ohio to be raised by his grandma kind of second thoughts. And then, on top of everything else? The damn plane crashed.

In the fourteen and a half years that Walt's been alive, he and his dad have had Thanksgiving dinner together exactly one time.

Not that Walt remembers it, since he wasn't even a year old when it happened. Not that it mattered at the time, or at least it didn't to Michael. He still took his son to the Macy's parade, carried him right up front so he could see, held him close with one arm and pointed out all the different floats, explained every last balloon while Susan alternated between smiling at him and rolling her eyes. If her smiles were strained, Michael didn't notice it; if the eyerolling was more frequent than usual, he doesn't remember. All he remembers is the city in November, the sharp edge to the air that signaled oncoming snow, the way every marching band's drums echoed off the buildings, heralding their arrival. Kids in parkas and mittens, clutching styrofoam cups of hot chocolate; parents calling out "Look! See that? Who's that? Do you know who that is?" The way Walt pulled at his blue hat, like he couldn't figure out whether he wanted it to yank it off or tug it down even further. He didn't seem to pay attention to very much, but Snoopy made him laugh and clap his hands; in that moment, Michael decided his son was a fan of the classics and resolved to start him on Peanuts as soon as possible. He also perked up for the Rockettes, but Michael opted not to bring that up around Susan.

Then it was dinner at Grandma's -- sweet potatoes with marshmallow and a turkey that was far too big for three people and the best cornbread stuffing on Staten Island, bar none. And maybe Walt was just barely starting in on solids, and didn't have more than a few mouthfuls of strained peas (which he promptly spit back up onto Michael's good striped shirt), but that didn't matter either, not to Michael. He had Susan, and his mom. He had his boy. And they were together, and it was Thanksgiving, and even if there'd been no parade, no sweet potatoes, no cornbread stuffing, it wouldn't have mattered. Michael had everything he needed.

One time, and only one time.

Then Susan decided that she needed to move on, and that she was taking Walt with her.

Michael fought as hard as he could, for as long as he could, but Susan had the money and the good job and the good apartment and the good life, and Michael was just a starving artist turned construction worker, barely making enough to keep himself alive, let alone a child. Then he got hit by that car and suddenly he wasn't even a construction worker -- just another broken man on disability, with a broken leg and broken ribs and a broken everything else.. And Susan had Bryan, and Bryan wanted Walt, and they wanted to be a real family, an intact family. And Michael was just... broken. Too broken to keep fighting

So he let Susan and Bryan take his son, and resigned himself to Thanksgivings alone, frozen turkey dinners and old horror movies he rented so he wouldn't have to watch another televised Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving. He gave up.

Then, out of the clear blue, Susan got sick. And just like that, she was gone. And Bryan, the guy who'd wanted to adopt Walt so damned much, the guy who'd been so much better as a father than Michael could've ever dreamed of being... well it turned out he wasn't such hot shit after all, because he was practically begging Michael to come claim his son almost as soon as Susan was in the ground. Saying he'd never wanted Walt. That it was all Susan's idea. That Walt was different, that Walt was a challenge, that Walt was more than Bryan could handle and that Michael had to come take him back. He had to.

Walt had been alive a little over twelve years at that point, and Michael'd only been there for the first one. They'd only had one Thanksgiving together. That was all. And then Walt and Susan were gone, and Michael's life had fallen apart, and he'd just barely gotten himself back on his feet again and he had absolutely no idea what the hell he was going to do with any kind of twelve-year old boy, let alone a difficult one.

But he'd wanted Walt. He had always wanted Walt.

So he said yes Yes, he would take Walt back to New York. Come Thanksgiving, there would be the parade. Michael's mother could come back from Ohio to visit. She'd make them cornbread stuffing. And maybe, just maybe, he and Walt would figure it out somehow.

Except then he showed up in Australia to come get his son only to find a sulky kid entering a brutal phase of adolescence who didn't remember him, who'd never gotten any of his letters or cards, who didn't want to go to New York or see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade or eat anyone's cornbread stuffing. And he couldn't seem to talk to the boy and the boy definitely didn't want to talk to him, and he was already having some serious second thoughts by the time they got to the airport to catch Oceanic 815 back to L.A. Like, sending the boy to Ohio to be raised by his grandma kind of second thoughts.

And then, on top of everything else?

The damn plane crashed.

 

*

 

For the first month or so, Michael's sole priority is Walt. Does he know where Walt is, does Walt have enough food, does Walt have water, is Walt being attacked by a polar bear right now and does Michael have to rescue him again? He spends a little time getting to know the other survivors -- Sun's good people even if her husband's kind of a douchebag, and Kate seems to have her head screwed on straight (as opposed to John Locke, who's got a few screws loose); Hurley's all right if you don't mind everyone knowing your business; Charlie's flaky but he tries; Sawyer's an ass; Shannon's not as bitchy as she wants everyone to think she is and Juliet is maybe not always as sweet as she seems -- but mostly, it's him and Walt. Because it doesn't matter so much if he and Walt don't know each other; it doesn't even matter if Walt spends the first two weeks trying not to know his father. Walt's still Michael's son, and that means it's Michael's job to look after him. Not by teaching him to throw knives and spewing bullshit about their purpose on the Island, the way John Locke does, but -- Real taking care of, the kind he wanted to be doing all along. Making sure he hs shelter and food and water and someone to save him from the polar bears. That's Michael's job. As far as he's concerned, that's his only job.

But then Claire -- sweet, innocent, pregnant Claire -- goes missing.

He knows why he does it. It's the fear in Kate's voice when she says, "We still don't really know what's out in that jungle. We need to find Claire and Juliet before... Before something else does." It's the way Charlie swallows hard before he goes to stand beside her, and the set of Sayid's shoulders when he joins them. It's the odd little smile on John Locke's face when that Boone kid joins up with him; it's the grim set of Sawyer's jaw and the way Jin nods at him, the way Sun's lower lip trembles when she realizes her husband is leaving, and that she doesn't know where he's going, and that she doesn't know if he'll make it back.

It's Walt, looking up at his father, waiting for him to do something. _Anything._

So Michael pats his son on the shoulder, grabs his pack and a few bottles of water, and chases after Jin and Sawyer.

 

*

 

He, Sawyer, and Jin have been in the pit a little less than six hours when their captors push the cover out of the way and dump someone else in, a tumble of bare brown arms and long dark hair.

"What the hell?" Sawyer pushes himself up to his feet, but he's wary and slow -- Jin's the one who gets there first, scrambling to their new cellmate's side and rolling her onto her back. She's limp, hopefully nothing worse than unconscious, but there's bruises and scratches on her arms and what might be blood under her nails, like she's been in a fight not too long ago.

Also, she's a complete and utter stranger to them -- just like the big black dude who grabbed Jin, who clocked Michael when he tried to help his friend, who must've gotten Sawyer as well while Michael was out. Just like the blonde woman who's been hovering around the edges of the pit, just like the old white-haired dude who keeps looking in at them and then shaking his head.

A week ago, Michael thought he knew everyone on the island. It wasn't too hard -- every last one of them had been on that plane with him, had survived the same crash he had. A week ago, Michael would've said for sure that the Island was uninhabited until he got there.

But that was a week ago. This is now.

"Where do you think she came from?" Michael asks, glancing over at Sawyer.

Sawyer just shrugs. "Where the hell did any of 'em come from?" he asks.

Michael turns back to the woman, still sprawled out on the dirt floor of the pit with Jin hovering over her. She doesn't look that dangerous, not really. Round cheeks, kind of a baby face. All those marks on her arms -- she could've gotten them just trying to save herself, trying not to be kidnapped.

She could've. Maybe.

Maybe not, though.

"So what do we do?" he asks.

That's when Sawyer pulls the gun out from the waistband of his pants.

"What the hell?" Michael clambers to his feet, putting himself between Sawyer and the woman. "You've got a gun. All this time, you had a gun."

"Well, sorry I didn't reach for it sooner, Hoss, but I was busy getting clubbed in the face -- I didn't exactly have time to --"

Jin shouts something in Korean -- Michael's got no idea what, but he's pretty sure whatever it is, it means Jin's about as happy with Sawyer as Michael is right now (which isn't very).

"When were you going to let us know?" Michael demands. "You don't think that's something we might've wanted to hear? Hell, you don't think that's something we might've wanted to have? Jungle full of polar bears and giant smoke monsters and now we've been kidnapped by these wackos and thrown into a pit and for all we know --"

"You kidnapped us," the woman says, and Michael turns slowly to see her on her feet. She's short, slim, and she's stilll got that round, baby face, but there's something mean about her. Something scared. "We never did anything to you. First night after the crash, you came, and you took --"

"Crash?" Sawyer repeats, looking bewildered. He's still got the gun in his hand, but it's loose at his side, and judging by the way the woman's eyes keep sliding down and to the left, checking, Michael's not the only one who's noticed.

"The plane crash?" The woman lifts her eyes again, lifts her chin too. She's got an attitude on her, that's for sure. "The one you sent your man Goodwin to, to get our names and write his little lists, and --"

"I don't know any Goodwin, sweetheart," Sawyer says, and now he finally raises the gun, God only knows why. "And you weren't on that plane when it crashed, so don't go giving me any stories about --"

"But she was," Michael says, and the woman finally turns away from Sawyer and looks at Michael, perplexed. But it's so clear now. That round, baby face, bent over a magazine. The little look she gave Michael when he pounded at the bathroom door, hollering to Walt to hurry up, that there were other people waiting. "Near the back, just a couple rows up from the bathrooms. I had to take Walt."

The woman just... looks at him for a moment. "Tall kid?" she asks. "Shorts past his knees, shirt damn near as long? Called you Michael instead of 'Dad'?"

"Yeah," Michael says. "Yeah, that's my boy."

And the woman keeps looking at him, just looking. "So," she says, finally. "They take him from you yet?"

"What're you talking about?" Michael asks.

"There were two kids in the tail section," the woman tells him. "Zach and Emma. Then They came. And they took the children. And then they took seven more people. And that was _after_ they took the first three. So if you are who you say you are, if you were on that plane? They're gonna come for your people next. They're gonna come for Walt."

Michael looks at Sawyer. Sawyer looks back at him.

"Son of a bitch," Sawyer says.

 

*

 

There's no conflict for roughly an hour or so. Jin, Sawyer, and Michael all want to get home to check up on their people. Bernard's looking for his wife, Ana's visibly (and worryingly) intrigued by the prospect of getting her hands on a gun of her own, and Cindy and Libby just want to get out. The big black dude, Eko, doesn't say anything about what he wants (apparently, he hasn't said anything at all since his first night on the Island), but he seems willing enough to go with them.

Then they get outside, and it's time to decide which way to go. Michael and Sawyer are all in favor of cutting through the jungle, saving some time. But Ana refuses to go there, and Cindy and Libby seem to have her back.

Eko ends the argument by turning his back and walking away from the rest of them, leaving them to follow in his footsteps.

For the next three days, that's how every argument ends. They follow the path that Eko leads them on. They stop when he stops, they move when he moves. When Sawyer won't stop bitching and Ana's angry little hissed comments only make him louder, Eko turns to look at them and they both shut up. Ana acts like she's the boss, and most of the time, Michael almost believes her. But then Eko raises a hand, and Ana falls silent, and Michael remembers that everyone answers to someone in the end.

Throughout it all, Eko doesn't speak.

"It was the first night," Libby explains, whispering, one eye on Eko the entire time. It's been raining for about ten minutes, but it's not slowing them down -- Eko moves through the undergrowth like he's been a part of this Island his whole life, leading so effortlessly that Michael almost forgets that he's never been to their camp before, that he shouldn't know the way. "We woke up and there was this... this grunting. And sort of like a struggle, almost. But muffled. And then I heard this sound. Sort of wet. And soft. And I went over, with Ana, and I don't... I don't know if anyone else was there? But we went towards the sound, and there was Eko, with a rock in his hand, and two dead bodies... And we asked him what happened, but he never said. He hasn't said anything since. That must have been... Over thirty days ago, now. Maybe more like forty. I tried telling him that it wasn't his fault, that he was just defending himself, but. I mean, I guess it makes sense. To kill someone like that, with a rock... It's very intimate, don't you think?"

Michael's still not sure what to make of Libby. She talks a lot, like Hurley, but there's something about her that's more... intense. Almost creepy. "I don't know if intimate's the word I'd choose," he says, trying to be diplomatic.

"Well," Libby says. "But I mean, to be that close to someone, to see the light in their eyes go out, it really has to do a number on --"

Ana shushes her abruptly, freezing in place and looking around, every inch of her body alert. For a moment, Michael has no idea what's got her attention, and then he hears it. Whispering, like it's coming from all around them, like the freaking trees are talking to one another. He can't make out a single word, has no idea what's being said; all he knows is that it makes the hair all over his body stand on end.

"The hell is that?" Sawyer hisses, drawing his gun.

Jin stares into the trees and clutches his makeshift cudgel a little tighter.

"Cindy," Bernard says. "Where's Cindy?"

As if in answer, the whispering gets louder.

"Run," Ana says; when no one moves, she says it again, yells it out. "Run!"

So Michael grabs Libby, and he runs into the jungle, into the rain, into the whispers.

The last thing he's aware of is a whistling sound, and a feeling like he's being lifted off his feet, and darkness.

 

*

 

The first thing he's aware of is that somebody's crying.

He's on some kind of hard dirt floor, and his head throbs, and there's a twisting, fiery pain around his ankle, and someone is crying. Someone else is talking, whispering, and that's what makes him sit bolt upright, swaying as his head swims, making him dizzy. The person next to him grabs at his arm, holding him in place -- Jin, murmuring at him in Korean.

He opens his eyes.

They're still in the jungle, in some kind of cage -- big, metal bars, with some kind of concrete structure towards the back, like a display at the zoo or something. There's a vent or something coming down from the top, with a button on the side of it, with a knife and fork stenciled onto it. Other stuff up high, too, levers and things. For experiments, maybe?

Michael looks around, scanning the cage. Whatever they kept in here, it must've been plenty big, because there's room for several humans. Sawyer's in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, staring at nothing. Libby's leaning back against the wall, just underneath the button. Ana's on the other side, curled up in a ball, with Bernard holding her close, whispering to her as she cries. Jin has his hand wrapped around Michael's arm, holding him steady.

Cindy's gone.

So is Eko.

"What the hell happened?" he asks no one in particular.

"Juliet," Jin says, slowly. Then, "Other. Juliet. Other."

And it's not that Michael doesn't understand him, but he doesn't want to understand him.

"Your friend," Libby says, from her position underneath the button. "The one you said got taken. Looks like she was the one doing the taking after all."

Sawyer curls up a little tighter in his corner, and says nothing.

"And Eko?" Michael asks.

Libby shakes her head. "No one knows," she says.

Ana starts crying even harder, and Bernard pulls her close, stroking her hair.

Michael looks around the cage again, at everyone sitting around him, and the thing is he doesn't want to ask any more questions, but he's got to know. "So where the hell are we?" he asks, finally.

"Polar bear cages!" The answer is surprisingly brisk and cheerful and definitely does not come from within the cage itself -- Michael scrambles to his feet as fast as he can, Jin helping him up when he staggers. When he turns, he sees a man walking towards them, geeky-looking guy in a short-sleeved button down shirt with little polka dots on it, surrounded by burly men with rifles. "Of course, we got rid of the bears years ago. I heard one or two of them got free before we could euthanize them. Who knows, maybe you guys have seen 'em. Weirder things have happened, right? Careful with that button, by the way." The man gestures at Libby, who's standing with one hand near the knife/fork button -- she pulls it back as soon as he looks at her. "They were running intelligence tests on the bears, and of course there always has to be a punishment for failure, so. Hit that too many times, and you get a little zap. Well. If you were a polar bear, it'd be a little zap, but since you're _not_ \--"

"Where is she?" Sawyer climbs slowly to his feet, face a mask of absolute rage, something beyond anything Michael can remember seeing.

"She?" the man repeats. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific, James. Who is she?"

"You know who I mean," Sawyer growls, marching right up to the bars of the cage. "Where is Juliet?"

The man raises his eyebrows, mouth rounding into an _o_. "Well," he says. "Dr. Burke is busy with a patient right now."

"Patient?" Sawyer repeats.

"Claire," the man tells him. "You remember Claire, don't you, James? She had her baby, in case you were wondering. It's a boy. Perfectly healthy. She's named him Aaron. It's biblical, I believe."

"You've got Claire," Michael says -- it isn't really a question.

"Yes, Michael, I do." The man smiles at him, and for just a moment, there's something so sinister underneath the floppy hair and the ridiculous shirt that it stops Michael cold. "I also have Rose and Sun. And Walt, of course. In fact, it's safe to say that I have pretty much everyone at this point. Everyone I need, anyway. So if there's anyone left that you care about, James -- if there's anyone you don't want me to hurt, then I suggest you back away from the bars and let me do what I came here to do."

"Oh yeah?" Sawyer does not let go of the bars. "And what's that?"

The man doesn't answer him -- he turns to the corner, to where Ana's no longer huddled up in Bernard's embrace but standing over him, protective. "You know us better than James does, don't you Ana? In fact, it's safe to say you know us better than anyone. So if you think we're bluffing, by all means, let James stay right where he is. But if you don't --"

"Let go of the bars, Sawyer," Ana snaps; Libby steps away from the wall at the back of the cell, reaching out.

"He's bluffing," Sawyer says. "He probably ain't even got --"

" _Sawyer_." Ana doesn't move from her spot, but her voice is a physical force all its own. "Let go of the bars, and step back."

Libby's trembling hand lands on Sawyer's shoulder, and after another ridiculously long moment, Sawyer lets go of the bars, and steps back.

"We might have a place for you yet, Ana," the man says, all smiles and good cheer once again. "But. In the meantime." He turns to Michael. "Turn around and put your hands through the bars, please."

Michael almost asks him why. But then he thinks about Rose, and Sun, and _Walt_ , and he does what he's told, turns around and puts his hands through the bars, and tries not to flinch when he feels the cuffs go on him, tight and cold.

"Where are you taking him?" Libby asks, voice quavering. "Where are you taking Michael?"

"Just a little experiment," the man says, still so damned cheerful. "You should step away from the bars now, Michael. Just so we can open the door, you understand."

So Michael steps away from the bars.

And when they tell him to turn, he turns. And when they put the bag on his head, he doesn't fight. He just goes with them in the hope that somewhere along the line, he'll see his son again.

 

*

 

There is a room.

It's not part of the main Hydra building, with its underwater cages and its operating tables, its offices and armories and surveillance station. It's in another building, tucked back further into the jungle, like whoever built it wanted to stay hidden. Through a heavy door, down a long hallway, and then another door, with the number 23 painted on the outside.

There's no chains in this room, no plexiglass walls, no hatch to let the sea in. But the walls are lined with loudspeakers, and the chair that sits in the center of the room has restraints on the arms and the legs.

The first time Michael came to this room, hands cuffed behind him, surrounded by armed guards, he tasted copper on his tongue. There was a smell, like the smell of the air after a lightning strike, and in the moments when Ethan wasn't giving orders, Michael thought he could hear whispering. Not the jumble of voices he'd heard in the jungle, before They came -- this was one voice only, soft but clear.

_Dad,_ it said. _Dad, please._

For a moment, just a moment, he'd thought it was Walt.

Then he was in the chair, and the needle was in his arm and the glasses were on him and the drums drowned everything out, and he almost forgot about the voice he'd heard whispering in the walls.

But it's weird how memories work sometimes, because standing here now, with the lights on and the loudspeakers silenced, he thinks he can hear that voice again, just as clear as it was before.

_Dad, please._

And it's the damnedest thing, but he'd swear on his life that it still isn't Walt.

"His name was Benjamin Linus," John says, and Michael blinks at him, wonders -- But Locke's got his hands behind his back, casual, like a king surveying his kingdom, and if there really are voices whispering from the walls, John Locke can't hear them. "The man they put here before you, I mean. His name was Benjamin Linus, and he had a son. Blaine. Not actually his son; he'd adopted the boy when his mother died. But he'd raised the boy as his own, and he was the only family the boy ever knew, so I guess at a certain point it ceased to matter. Anyway, this Benjamin Linus... He was a problem, for his people. Stubborn. Didn't see things the way they wanted him to. So they put him in this room, Room 23, and they set about trying to break his will. Make him tractable.

"Then something... extraordinary happened."

Locke takes a dramatic pause; in the silence, Michael hears that voice again. _Please._ He fights to contain a shiver.

"The man who was in charge of the Island at the time, Charles Widmore -- He was a cautious man. Knew he couldn't just drag Ben Linus kicking and screaming away from his house and send him off for re-education. So he invented a cover story, said that Ben had been examining the old DHARMA station out here on Hydra Island, had gotten hurt, and couldn't be moved. People believed him, for the most part. But Ben's son, Blaine -- He had his own theories. And one day, he went to Widmore, and told him his theories. Now, Blaine was just a kid at the time. Maybe six, maybe seven years old. And he just walked right into Widmore's house and laid it all out there. Said he'd seen what they were doing to his father, that he knew about the video, about the drums, about the drugs. He knew when his father had eaten, when his father had been starved; he knew every single time his father had been allowed to sleep and for how long, and he knew exactly how many times his father had been interrogated, and what questions they'd asked, and what his father had said in response.

"And Widmore asked how he knew all of that, the boy said he'd seen it. In his dreams.

"Out of curiosity, Michael, have you had any... unusual dreams lately?"

It is blindingly obvious what Locke is asking him.

"No," Michael says, through gritted teeth.

"And you haven't seen Walt. Anywhere he's not supposed to be. Say, out at the construction site for the new airstrip, or --"

There aren't any guards, but Locke's got that knife on his belt, and Michael's not an idiot -- he's seen how fast the man can draw that thing. But just because he has enough presence of mind to keep his hands to himself doesn't mean he can stop his mouth. "You put my _son_ here -- You did this to him --"

Locke raises a hand, placating. "I know, and I'm sorry, but extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof, and what I'm asking of Ethan... It's out of the ordinary, to say the least. But I think he's starting to see my point of view now."

"Good for you," Michael snarls, and turns away, because it's getting harder and harder not to try to wrest that knife from Locke's belt and try to use it on him.

"I happen to think that it's pretty good for you too, Michael," Locke says. "And Walt. Since part of the plan involves letting you leave the Island. _Both_ of you."

It's funny, how even hope gets twisted in this room. All Michael's ever wanted for himself and his son is to go home, together. But in this room, with its metallic taste and its ozone smell and the persistent whispering in the walls

_\-- please, Dad, just look at me --_

it's hard to feel anything but dread.

"Why would you want to do that?" Michael asks.

"The funny thing," Locke says, settling himself in the chair in the center of the room, pulling out his knife and using it to trim the edges of his fingernails, "about what happened with Benjamin Linus, is that before Ben went into this room, Room 23, Widmore thought that Ben was the important one. That his son, Blaine, was nothing but a distraction for him, preventing him from ever being truly loyal to the Island. After what happened, of course, he changed his mind. Now Blaine was important. And Ben was the one in the way.

"But as important as Blaine was to Widmore, to the Island? He was a thousand times more important to his father. And the room had changed Ben -- the room changes everyone. But it hadn't changed that. So Widmore had to do two things -- he had to figure out a compelling reason to get Ben away from his son, just for a little while. And he had to make sure that Ben never found out what was going to happen while he was away from his son.

"The first part, he managed. But the second --"

Locke looks up at Michael, and smiles. "Out of curiosity, Michael, if someone were to come up to you and tell you that I was lying to you, right now, that I wasn't going to let you take Walt -- that he would stay here, forever, with us, what would you do?"

Michael looks back at Locke, steady. "Whatever I had to," he says. "Whatever it took to get Walt away from you? That's what I'd do."

Locke nods, and then goes back to his fingernails. "For what it's worth, I'm telling you the truth," he says, "You and Walt are leaving, because your being here isn't doing the Island any good. That's not to say that you're not a loving father, or that Walt isn't an exceptionally talented young man, because both of these things are true. But that's not what the Island needs right now. The Island needs Benjamin Linus. And his son, of course. It needs both of them. And so it needs you and _your_ son to go get him, and bring him back."

_just look at me, just once, please_

"Why us?" Michael asks.

"Because," Locke says. "Benjamin Linus is protecting his son, and that makes him very, very dangerous. But I think that, with the right motivation, you could be every bit as dangerous."

And he smiles.

 

 

*

 

And when Michael sees his son for the first time in months, when he wraps Walt up in his arms and holds on tight and feels the tears stinging his eyes, feels Walt's tears soaking his shirt, he knows that he told Locke the absolute truth. He'd do anything. Anything at all to protect his son.

 

*

 

Except.

 

*

 

The hospital room tastes like copper and smells like the air after a lightning strike, but there's too much noise here for Michael to make out any whispering.

He wonders whose voice he'd hear, Ben's or Blaine's.

"Hey, man," he says. "Listen --"

" _Don't_ ," Ben says, his voice surprisingly harsh for all it's so quiet. Then he sighs, and his shoulders slump; his restless hand smooths Blaine's forehead. "I don't... You don't need to apologize, not to me. I of all people should know what a man might do for his son."

_Whatever I had to do_. That's what Michael told Locke -- he'd do whatever he had to, to get Walt off the Island. But Walt is off the Island, now, and Michael doesn't know that Locke's not going to bother trying to bring him back again... But he does. He knows.

Because maybe the Island wants Ben Linus and maybe it doesn't. Hell, it's a piece of rock sticking up out of the ocean; Michael doubts it really cares either way. But John Locke cares. He cared enough to put Michael in that room; he cared enough to put Walt in that room. He cared enough to let them go, and Michael doesn't know a hell of a lot about John Locke but he knows the man doesn't let anything go easily, or without reason. To let go of Michael, of his son, of Sayid and Juliet and even Dr. Goddamn Arzt --

It doesn't matter what the Island wants. Locke wants Ben (and his son, of course, but maybe only as an afterthought). And he'll do whatever he has to to get him back.

"Miss Holliday has informed me that you've agreed to help us," Ben says, his voice more level. "While I do... appreciate that, it's not necessary. I'm sure that Holly and I can get you and Walt set up with new identities -- you could return to New York, or --"

"They were testing us," Michael says; Ben stiffens, but he doesn't turn around. "Walt and me, I mean. First when they put me in the room, and then when they put him in there. They wanted to see if we could do what you and your boy could do. Hearing each other. The way you did."

There's a long, long pause; Michael can almost see Ben trying out different responses, discarding them one at a time. "And did you?" he asks, finally, his precarious calm already starting to erode. His voice is practically vibrating with the strain.

"No."

Ben tenses up a little more but tries to hide it, tries to still the shaking of his hand by burying it deep in his son's dark curls. "It doesn't matter," he says, but that strain is still in his voice. "Ethan's always been pragmatic; if he starts to think that Blaine and I are too much trouble, if you and Walt seem like easier targets, he'll --"

"It's not up to Ethan," Michael says. Because it's not; he's known that ever since John Locke led him back into that room, sitting in that chair like a king on his throne, trimming his fingernails with the sharp edge of his knife. "Ethan's losing it. Maybe he's already lost it; I don't know. But I don't think he wanted to put us in that room in the first place, and I know for a fact that he never wanted to go after you. This wasn't his idea."

Another pause; Michael wonders what he'd see, how fast the gears are turning in Ben's head right now. He wonders what he'd hear if it wasn't for the incessant beeping of monitors, voices from the nurse's station, the sound of footsteps in the hallway. "I have a feeling," Ben says, finally, "that I don't actually want to know whose idea it was."

He sounds exhausted. But not defeated, not yet.

"His name's John Locke," Michael tells him. "He was on the plane. Oceanic Flight 815. He was with us. And he's a very, very dangerous man."

Ben's shoulders rise and fall -- deep breath in, deep breath out. He goes back to gently smoothing out his son's hair. "All right," he says. "Tell me everything you can."

 

 

*

 

"GPS indicates that the freighter stopped right about here," Holly says, pointing at a spot on the map that looks like nothing but empty ocean. "We managed to intercept a radio conversation between someone on the freighter and a woman who called herself Libby." She glances up at Michael, and he nods. He remembers Libby. "The freighter stayed in place about a week -- we got fragments of a couple more conversations, nothing that useful. Then there was some kind of electromagnetic... something; I don't know, I'm not a scientist. The freighter stayed where it was for another day, day and a half, and then turned around and set sail for Bali. Picked up food and supplies there, then set off again for L.A. Should be there in another three days, maybe four."

"And you want me there to meet them," Michael said. He doesn't add that he sees no reason to go, but it must be on his face or in his voice, because Holly gives him this pleading look that would almost be disarming if he trusted her, but he doesn't, so it isn't.

That must be on his face, too, because Holly lets out a long sigh of a breath and her expression hardens.

"When the people on the freighter talked to Libby," she says, "they told her they'd been sent by Penelope Widmore. It was a lie, of course, but it tells us something interesting. Whoever did send them knows who Penny Widmore is, they know that she's looking for the Island, and probably they know why. And the only person who knows any of that, let alone all of it, is Penny's father. Charles."

Michael blinks at her. "So?"

Another breath. "So, Charles Widmore's the one who put Ben in that room," Holly says. Funny, how as soon as she says _that room_ in that tone of voice, Michael's heart starts hammering. "He's the one who spent the better part of a decade trying to get Ben back in that room, and the only reason he ever stopped is because he lost the Island to your buddy Ethan, and therefore no longer had a brainwashing room to put people in in the first place. If that was his freighter, if his people managed to find out that Ethan's looking for Ben, looking to bring him back to the Island --"

"He'll try to get to Ben first," Michael finishes, and he doesn't want to care, but he cares too damn much.

_Please, Dad._

"He called Ben the night Blaine got shot." That pleading look is back on Holly's face, but it's different now. Michael trusts it this time. "He knew what had happened to Blaine, he knew about Penny -- He knows about me. I mean, I don't know that he does... But I know he does. But there's a possibility, maybe, he doesn't know about you. And it's a long shot, I know that, but --

"And, honestly?" Holly looks up at him, naked sincerity on her face. "I'm scared to go. I'm scared of what will happen if I'm not here. It's already bad enough knowing that I could've been at McKinley when Blaine... I could've been there. I should've been there; I knew that Karofsky was dangerous, but I... I wasn't where I should've been. And Blaine got hurt, and I can't do that again, Michael. I can't."

_Please._

The last time Michael left his son to help a stranger, they both wound up kidnapped. He gets that Holly doesn't want to make the same mistake twice, but the thing is, neither does he.

"I'll check in on Walt and your mother," Holly says. "Every day. I've got eyes at Dalton. And Ben will help me; I know he will. And he's good at this. I can't guarantee that nothing will happen to you, Michael, but I will do my best to keep Walt protected. I promise you. But I need you to help me protect Ben and Blaine."

Michael studies her for a long time. "That's not what you're here for, is it?" he asks. "Protecting Ben and Blaine. That's not what you're here to do."

"It's not why I was sent here," Holly says, correcting -- it's the first time, he thinks, that he's heard her sound like a teacher. "But it's what I'm here for now."

It's more of an answer than he was expecting, anyway.

"So this boat of yours," he says. "You got any idea who's going to be on it?"

 

*

 

The answer steps off a freighter in the Port of L.A. at about three in the morning. It's two days before Thanksgiving, and Michael should be brining turkeys and watching holiday specials with his son and going shopping so his mom can make cornbread stuffing, but instead he's shivering here in the pre-dawn chill, hidden behind a pallet of empty barrels, watching a long line of extremely dangerous-looking dudes march two by two down the dock. And at the very back of the line, there's someone that Michael knows -- that familiar bushy cloud of hair, the oversized t-shirt and denim shorts, the worn sneakers.

_Hurley._

When Hurley steps into the light, Michael can just make out the expression on the big guy's face -- he looks scared, and sad, and lonely, and lost, and Michael's heart goes out to him. He takes half a step forward, knowing that he can't get involved but still just --

Then Hurley moves on, and Michael can see the woman behind him. The baby face, the round cheeks, the dark, liquid eyes.

Ana turns, and Michael can't step back into the shadows fast enough. Her eyes lock onto his, and for a split second, he's convinced that he's done for.

But then Ana steps forward, takes Hurley's arm, and keeps moving him along, and Michael sags back into the shadows behind his tower of barrels.

 

*

 

"Look, don't worry about a thing," Ana says, and pats his arm. "It's you and me, right? I'll figure something out. I'll get you home. I promise."

Hurley stares down at the table and says nothing. He knows he's not going home. He _can't_ go home. Even if Mr. Widmore does let them go, it doesn't matter.

_You have to stay with Ben,_ Walt had told him. _Right there with him. Don't let him out of your sight._

And Hurley had promised he would.

Ana pats his arm again, and sighs. "I gotta go," she says. "I'll be back soon, okay? Just... Save me some chicken. Wings are my favorite. Deal?"

"Deal," Hurley mumbles, and glances up just in time to see Keamy's men leading her out of the room. One of them grins at him before the door shuts behind them, and Hurley looks away quickly. Back to the table, back to the buckets of chicken laid out there, the mashed potatoes and the biscuits and the... everything else. He's not sure if Mr. Widmore's trying to be nice or if he's making fun of him.

It doesn't really matter, though.

For the first time in a long time, Hurley's not hungry, not even a little bit.


	8. Landslides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We can be scared together.

The day after Thanksgiving, Brittany takes Artie to see Santa.

There are anywhere between nine and fifteen Santas in the greater Lima, Ohio area, depending on which stores are still open and which stores have closed down, and which stores have Extended Holiday Hours! and which stores have decided not to bother. There are black Santas and white Santas and the angry Chicano Santa who sits on the corner in Lima Heights and throws coal at everybody and one time Brittany saw an Asian Santa at the mall food court getting Cinnabon. At some point between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Brittany will visit all of the Santas, because Becky likes to try to pull their beards off, to test them. But she never bothers asking them any serious questions, because they're all just Assistant Santas.

There's only one real Santa, and that's the one who comes to the Pizza Bucket the day after Thanksgiving for the Deep-Fried Turkey Drumstick and All-You-Can-Eat Frog Leg Buffet.

He doesn't look like Santa -- he doesn't have the suit on, and he's shaved off most of his beard (although sometimes he's a little scruffy), and his hair is blond and not white, and he's definitely been dieting. But obviously he can do what he wants now that he's got Assistant Santas covering his busy public appearance schedule for him; he's not representing the brand anymore, so he can look like who he wants to look like. The important thing is that he's always around at Christmas time, he always has something for Brittany, and it always turns out to be the most important present she'll get all year, even if she doesn't understand why.

This year, it's a compass.

"What does it do?" she asks, turning it in her hands, fascinated with the way the needle moves.

Santa just looks at her, furrows his brow. "It points North," he says.

"Oh, good," Artie mumbles. "It'll lead us straight to the North Pole so we can find you."

Santa turns to look at Artie, then, and Brittany rests a hand on Santa's sleeve to calm him down. "He can't help it," she says. "He's not a believer."

Santa gives her a smile and a little shrug. "Well," he says. "Believer or not, I've got something for Artie, too." He reaches into the satchel at his side, and pulls out a little book, which he passes over to Artie.

Artie takes it and squints down at the cover. "Why do I need a Conversational Turkish Phrasebook?" he asks.

"Maybe it'll come up in Brainiacs?" Brittany suggests. "Last week we were doing all that weird Latin, maybe next week we'll do Turkish."

"Those were famous historical and literary quotations; I don't think Turkish is the --"

"Brainiacs," Santa says, softly. "Your faculty advisor for that. That's a Mr. Anderson, isn't it? Benjamin Anderson."

The thing is, Brittany knows she shouldn't be surprised. Santa knows everyone; of course he knows Mr. Anderson. But... But there's knowing Mr. Anderson and then there's _knowing_ him, and it's different. So she can't stop herself from clutching even tighter at Santa's sleeve, or staring at him with her eyes real big.

"It's okay, Britt." Santa lays his hand over the top of hers. "I know what you're trying to do. And I fully believe that you can get Mr. Anderson exactly where he needs to be. That's why you've got the compass. So you always know where you're going."

"Which, apparently, is Turkey," Artie says, still flipping through his phrasebook.

Brittany ignores him; it's easy, because she loves him. It's always easy to ignore the people you love. Her parents have been doing it for a long time. "Thank you, Santa," Brittany says, softly.

He smiles down at her and pats her hand one last time before pulling away.

"Can I have a frog leg?" she asks.

He pushes the plate towards her. "Help yourself," he says.

 

 

*

 

Sometimes, Finn wonders why they're even bothering. Just... school, and everything. He knows they can't just stop, either, because it would look suspicious if anyone's watching. And also, because they need something to do with themselves and also because once all of this is over and everything is taken care of they're going to have to go back to school anyway and if they've missed too many classes they'll be in serious trouble. So really, he knows why they're bothering. It's just...

Lately, he's just...

Tired.

"Hey," Rachel says, leaning against the locker next to his, smiling up at him. It's not her usual smile, which is so big and so wide that she looks like Quinn's old pageant pictures, but a smaller smile. Like she's tired, too. Like being around him is just making her tired.

Maybe it is.

He tries to smile back anyway, to see if it helps. "Hey," he says, and tries to sound cheerful, but he doesn't think it's working.

Then Rachel switches from her tired smile to her brave smile (he knows all her smiles -- they spent a week over summer break categorizing and perfecting them all, so he's got them pretty much by heart now), and he knows he looks really, really awful.

"So I was thinking." Rachel reaches out and rests one hand on his waist, and keeps smiling bravely at him. "Because we're all a little at loose ends with no competitions left to prepare for, and while it's nice to be together, especially when things are... tough, as they are now, it's... I think not having anything to do is starting to take its toll on us, as a glee club. I mean, you have to admit, Mr. Schuester's mashups are starting to go beyond experimental into just... Weird."

"I don't know," Finn says, trying hard to sound optimistic. "I mean, the Kriss Kross/Christopher Cross thing was kind of --"

"But with Christmas coming up," Rachel continues, which is kind of rude of her but at least it's the kind of rude Finn is used to, and also he doesn't have to talk anymore which is good because lately he just has nothing to say, so. "Obviously, that expands our song choices significantly, but more importantly, that gives us a chance to do something. Something... unselfish."

And Finn actually should say something to that, but he still doesn't have anything, so he just keeps his mouth shut.

"I know you feel helpless right now," Rachel says, and scoots a little closer to Finn -- not so close that it's inappropriate for school, but close enough that he can feel how warm she is, and he feels like that should make him warm too, but instead he's just -- not even cold. Just numb. "We all do, but I know for you, it's harder. Because you're the quarterback, and you're the leader of the Glee club, and you've been helping your mom all this time, and you... you _do_ things, Finn. So I thought we should do something. All of us. But with you in charge, of course. Since you're the leader."

Except he's not anymore, is he? Mr. Anderson is the leader. And maybe Burt is the deputy leader, or maybe Finn's mom is, or something. Finn's not leading anything right now. Or at least, he's not leading any of the important things. Except Rachel doesn't know about those things, because she's not supposed to know, because she'll get hurt if she knows, so Finn can't tell her any of it.

Besides, he may not be a leader to anyone else, but he's still a leader to her. And maybe, right now, that doesn't feel like it matters much to him. But it matters to her.

So he forces his smile a little wider and says, "Um... yeah. Maybe we could... What did you want to do?"

Rachel beams at him, and hooks her arm through his, giving him just enough time to slam his locker shut before she pulls him away from it, and he's pretty sure he doesn't have the books he needs for his next class, but he figures he'll let it go for now. "Well," she says, "like I was saying, there is a marvelous library of Christmas music at our disposal, so I thought _caroling_ , but then I had to think about where the best place would be, and obviously Mr. Anderson's going to be in the hospital, which is terrible this time of year, but then I thought about how many people are in hospitals for Christmas, and small children, and the elderly, and then I got very sad, but I do think that if we --"

And Finn nods, and smiles, and says "yeah," and "sure," and "great," whenever Rachel leaves a long enough pause, because he knows that's what she needs, and he's her leader for now. And he tries to convince himself that caroling at the hospital is all he'll need to do to feel like a leader for real.

But he's not sure he believes it.

 

*

 

_La mer,_  
Qu'on voit danser  
Le long  
Des golfes claires 

It's the last Thursday before Blaine's father's surgery.

Mr. Anderson is at Brainiacs with Miss Holliday and Artie and Tina and Mike and Brittany, because apparently he takes academic decathalon really really seriously (or maybe he just wants to be normal one last time, but that's not something Kurt really wants to think about, so he doesn't), and Kurt and Blaine are in the choir room, sitting side-by-side at the piano. Rachel and Finn are supposed to be there, too, working on their caroling thing, but Kurt got Finn to pull Rachel into the auditorium instead. Which might be stupid of him, but the thing is, he can tell how it's starting to wear Blaine out, everyone watching him and worrying and making a big deal, and he can't stop his friends from caring and he's glad that they do, but if he can give Blaine a moment away from that, then he's going to.

And it turns out he can.

So this is their moment.

_Avec les anges si purs_  
La mer  
Bergère d'azur  
Infinie 

Blaine's father is the one who taught him how to play piano. Kurt never asked him about it; Tina was the one who brought it up. And of course, no one ever asked where Ben learned to play piano.

Kurt's mother never played piano, but she always sang beautifully. She used to sing this song to him when he was little, in her high, clear voice.

Kurt never asked her where she learned it, of course.

_Et d'une chanson d'amour_  
La mer  
A bercé mon coeur  
Pour la vie 

The last few notes fade off into silence.

"What's it like?" Kurt asks, after a moment, and Blaine turns and blinks at him. "The ocean, I mean. _La mer_. Because we went to California once, to visit my mom's parents, but they lived pretty far inland and the one time we did go to the beach, there was this girl who got separated from her parents and she had a nosebleed and it got all over my shirt and then we ate at a taco truck and we all got sick and so now all I remember from that is bleeding and puking. And then my grandparents moved to New Mexico, and then my mom got sick, and we never made it back to California. But my mother used to talk about it. About the ocean. And how much... How much she missed it. And I always kind of wondered what it was like, so.."

Blaine keeps his eyes down, staring at his fingers resting gently against the keys of the piano. "You don't mean California," he says, softly. "Do you? I mean... There is a difference. It's not the same ocean everywhere. The one you mean... The one you mean is different. Isn't it?"

Kurt lays one hand over Blaine's -- he doesn't squeeze or hold or anything, just... Just rests it there. "Please?" he asks.

Blaine's eyes linger on his hands a while longer -- on Kurt's hand, laid so gently on top of his. Then he finally looks up, right into Kurt's eyes. "It's so blue," he murmurs. "And... and green, but not just -- You don't really realize how many shades of blue and how many shades of green there are in the world, and how they can mix together, and all the different ways... It's not just blue and green and then aqua or whatever. There's so many different shades, all coming together. And some places, it's almost golden -- the places where it's shallow, because it's so clear and you can see all the way down. Or that's in the sunlight, anyway. But when... When storms come in, then it's gray, or even black sometimes, depending on how bad the storm is. And at night it's so dark, with just the reflections of the moon and the stars, little glimmering lights sort of scattered around and...

"And it's warm, there. It's not like Portland, or even L.A., but... like the Gulf, where it's that very warm water, like a bath, and you could just stay there. All day. But... I mean, it was treacherous, too. You couldn't go out too far, or you wouldn't come back, just because of tides and -- But it was beautiful. It was always beautiful, even when it was dangerous. I --"

Then he stops, and ducks his head, breaking eye contact. He laughs a little, self-conscious. "Sorry," he says. "I'm rambling. I --"

"It's fine," Kurt says, because it's all he can think of to say. Because it's not -- he's not sure what's going on with him and Blaine, or what any of it means, but it's hard not to react when someone's staring into your eyes and talking about things that are beautiful and dangerous and sweep you away, and he wants to ask, but he's afraid to.

But then Blaine, still looking down at Kurt's hand covering his, says, "But that was what I thought of, when I -- When you took off your sunglasses, that day on the stairs, and I -- That was what you reminded me of."

And just like that, Kurt's heart is racing and his mouth is dry and he can't even speak.

"I --" And then Blaine tries to pull away, and Kurt knows he has to do something but all he can do is clamp down on Blaine's hand, on that one point of contact between them. "Kurt, I -- If I said the wrong thing, then I --"

"Blaine, look at me." Kurt's voice comes out breathless and kind of higher than usual, but Blaine still turns and looks at him, all warm honey-hazel eyes and softly parted lips, and Kurt knows he should ask first or at least give Blaine some kind of warning, but it turns out that four words was all he had in him, so he just rests his free hand on Blaine's jawline and leans in, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head and presses their lips together.

There's a moment where Blaine is absolutely still and motionless, stunned into immobility, but then Kurt hears Blaine sucking in a deep breath through his nose and Blaine's warm hand settles on the side of Kurt's neck, and Blaine's pressing forward and parting his lips and actually _kissing back_ , and every time Kurt's found himself being kissed by somebody he's been trying not to think about it too hard, not to pay any attention to it, but right now he can feel everything -- Blaine's fingertips pushing into the hair on the nape of his neck and how hard Blaine's teeth are behind his lips and the tip of his nose sort of mashed against Kurt's cheek and their hands still tangled on top of the piano keys, the way their shoulders graze as they press closer together and their knees brush and Blaine's soft lips pressing and then yielding and opening and when Kurt catches Blaine's top lip between his own, he can feel just a little how warm and wet Blaine's mouth is on the inside and Blaine's fingertips press harder against the back of Kurt's neck and _oh_ \--

Kurt tries to press closer and the shift in his weight forces their hands down a little too hard on the keys of the piano, and the discordant jangle of it breaks them apart, both of them breathing heavy as they pull back, folding their hands in their laps and then staring down at them.

"Please tell me that was okay," Kurt murmurs, feeling his face heat up. Because Blaine was kissing back, but Kurt didn't ask, and what if --

" _Kurt_." Blaine's laughing a little, but there's more than that, a complicated tangle of emotions in his voice that Kurt can't sort out. He wants to look at Blaine's face to see if that helps him, but he doesn't get the chance -- Blaine's already shifting in closer, angling to rest his head on Kurt's shoulder.

Which, Kurt guesses, is probably a good sign overall.

So he wraps an arm around Blaine's waist and pulls him in closer, and when Blaine reaches out Kurt reaches back, his hands tangling with Blaine's, stilling their restless tremors.

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

Another little laugh, just as complicated as the first. "I'm scared," Blaine points out.

Kurt's first instinct is to ask Blaine what he's scared of, but then he takes half a second to think about it and realizes that the list is really long and would probably take an hour or more to go through.

"You believe me now," Blaine adds, after a few moments. He cuddles in closer, tucking his forehead into the curve where Kurt's neck meets his shoulder, and Kurt can't help but feel like Blaine is somehow _listening_ to him, like Kurt's heartbeat is whispering secrets that only Blaine can hear. "You didn't at first, but you do now."

It's not a question; Kurt answers him anyway. "Yes," he says, softly, and wraps his arms even tighter around Blaine's solidity and strength.

"But you're still here." It's not quite a complaint, nor is Blaine trying to pull away, but he can't quite hide the worry in his voice. "You're scared, but you're still here."

"You're scared too," Kurt reminds him, and rests his cheek on the top of Blaine's gel-sticky hair. "I thought we could be scared together."

There's a pause, and then Blaine nods. "Okay," he whispers.

Kurt doesn't say anything else -- he just holds on to Blaine, and quietly marvels in the way that Blaine lets himself be held.

 

*

 

She's not a hundred percent surprised to find him in his classroom long after the final bell rings on Friday.

The kids are long since gone, of course -- it's just the empty room, the last few problems of the day still up on the chalkboard. The posters on the wall, the lives of famous mathematicians in glossy black-and-white. The quotes from Einstein. The first thousand or so digits of pi painted on the wall just underneath the ceiling, stretching all the way around the room. It's funny how easy it is to forget that this is part of Ben Linus, too. This room, these kids. That this is every bit as much a part of him as the Island and the Room and the running and the guns.

"You okay?" she asks, softly.

Ben doesn't look up at her. "Not really," he says.

Holly crosses to his desk, leans up against it. She opted against wearing a skirt today; usually she likes to have that ability to use her legs as a distraction (her legs are very distracting), but today that seemed like the wrong choice. And she's kind of glad for that. She's pretty sure Ben wouldn't take kindly to being distracted right now anyway. "Anything I can help with?"

"No."

There's a single piece of paper on the desk in front of him, turned face down. It's possible that Ben just doesn't want her seeing it, but it's also possible that he's the one trying to avoid it. "That's from her," Holly says. "Isn't it?"

"It's exactly what she told Figgins," Ben says, his voice flat, almost emotionless. "That there was a family emergency, and that she's very sorry, but she had to leave, and she doesn't know when she'll be back." Then he sighs. "Honestly, I don't know why I'm surprised. It's not like Juliet ever had any reason to tell me the truth. I'm just... someone who happened to be of use to her, for a little while."

There's a lot that Holly wants to say to that, but she's pretty sure that it would sound all wrong coming from her. She's using him too, in her own way, and that's not something Ben's going to forget, especially not right now. But just looking at him, staring down at the desk, at the note Juliet left behind...

Ben's hands are clasped together on the desk -- Holly reaches out and lays her left hand atop both his. Ben doesn't move, doesn't look up at her, doesn't pull away. He just stays where he is. "I'm really sorry, Ben," she says.

He nods, still silent, still frozen in place.

"I should've -- I thought there was something about her, but then I figured I was just..." The word _jealous_ catches on her tongue, stalls there. It's not that Holly wasn't aware of the way Ben would look at Juliet when he thought she wasn't looking back -- the longing, the hope. She was aware. She was very aware. But she doesn't do jealous. She's never done jealous.

Of course, she's also never had the same apartment for more than two months, and here she is going on three with that same stained carpet.

"I thought that, if she was really important, Penny would've told me. And she didn't. So I just --"

Ben nods again. "Of course," he says, softly. "Of course. I understand."

Except he doesn't, and that's what stings. He thinks he does, because he thinks Holly's just some dizzy blonde who doesn't know what she's doing and doesn't have a plan and wouldn't know if there was a threat in the room even if that threat was pointing a gun to his head. He thinks that she's out of her depth, over her head. Shallow, silly, flighty Holly.

And the worst thing is, he's not wrong.

The problem was never that Ben had the hots for Juliet. Holly had the hots for her too; she's pretty sure a lot of people do. Juliet's just hot, as a person. That was never the problem. The problem was that Ben looked at Juliet like she could mean something more to him. Like she was an equal, someone he could respect. Like he could trust her. Rely on her.

Holly's entire goal in life has been to make herself as unreliable as possible. It seemed like the easiest way to do things. Like the safest way.

At what point is it too late for a person to change?

She pulls her hand away from his, pushes away from the desk. "God, I really am in over my head, aren't I?" she asks, and honestly, the question's not even _for_ Ben, and she's not sure why she's still in this room, letting him watch her break down, but her feet won't carry her more than a few steps away from the desk; she can't seem to make them go any further. "Penny's put all this faith in me, and _you've_ put all this faith in me, and I'm just -- I try so hard to make it look like I know what I'm doing, like I've got it all figured out, and then I just... I get it wrong. I get everything wrong. And Blaine got hurt, and someday someone else is going to get hurt, and maybe it'll be you or Kurt or -- And that's on me. Because I... I can't do this. I just can't. I thought, you know, Penny trusting me with this, it was some kind of sign, like I was meant for better than just living off paper plates in one-month rentals, that there was more to me than just... But there's nothing there. I've looked, and I've looked, but there's just -- "

"You were right about Kurt and Blaine, you know." Ben's voice is level and calm, perfectly reasonable, even though just a minute or so earlier, he'd sounded like a wounded child. He's so calm, in fact, that Holly barely even questions the complete non sequitur. But he's going somewhere, of course. Ben always is. "Blaine came to me last night, to tell me. Since we'll be staying with the Hummels after my surgery, he thought I should know. So it wouldn't be awkward. And I won't say I didn't see this coming, but I was a little surprised by my own reaction. I was just so -- _Relieved_. All this time, knowing that my surgery was coming, knowing that when I go into that operating room I won't be able to control what happens; I won't be able to make sure that I come out intact, if I even come out at all... And it's not that I think that the Hummels would just toss Blaine aside if he and Kurt were just good friends. He'd have someplace to go, at least for a little while.

"But it's not that easy, taking care of Blaine. Because of my people, because they want him so very badly, badly enough to -- And it's dangerous. It requires a strong commitment. And so, when Blaine told me that he and Kurt were serious about each other, I just... For a moment, at least, it felt like everything would be all right. That even if the worst were to happen, even if I never do come out of that hospital, Kurt would be there. And he would _step in_. And he would take care of my son for me."

Holly straightens, swallowing hard. He'd brushed her off so easily when she said that; she hadn't thought --

There's a soft thump -- Ben's walking stick connecting with the hard industrial carpet. A few more thumps, muffling the softer sound of Ben's footsteps, and then Ben is beside her. He doesn't reach out, but he's standing close, close enough for his left arm to brush against hers. "I flatter myself that I'm not that easy to read," he says. "Of course, it's possible that I'm wrong, but it's been ten years since I left the Island, and I'm still here, so I figure I must be doing something right. But from the very first time you and I spoke, Holly, you knew exactly what to say and what to do to keep me interested. To challenge me. To make me want to trust you. Just like you did with Michael, who could easily have been our biggest threat and is now one of our better allies. That's not _nothing_ , Holly. That's _something_."

Ben's thumb strokes deliberately over the back of Holly's hand, and Holly closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

"I was jealous," she admits, and she can't see Ben's response, but she can feel it, the slight twitch of his shoulders as it hits him, the way he tenses up. "Of Juliet. She's attractive, and smart, and funny, and it was obvious that the two of you were close, and I kind of hated her for that, just on principle. And then when I started to figure out... When I started to realize that there was something wrong in the way she looked at you, that there was something... I figured I was just looking to give myself some kind of hope. That I wanted so badly to believe that the two of you wouldn't work out that I made it all up in my head."

There's a long pause, and then that thumb -- the nail closely-trimmed, sharp and smooth, the skin a little dry, a little rough -- skims down the back of her hand again, from wrists to knuckles, and back up. "Well, if it makes you feel any better," Ben says, dryly, "I'm pretty sure Juliet and I won't work out. In case you were still wondering."

It almost seems like he's trying to... But there's no way. It's just him being nice, trying to make her feel better. Holly does her best to muster a smile for him anyway. "Wow," she says, trying her best to bluff her way past it. "I really shouldn't have told you that. Now everything is just going to be incredibly awkward between the two of us."

"Not necessarily." When Holly glances over at Ben, he's looking back at her -- that calm expression, just the smallest trace of a smile. His hand envelops hers for a moment, warm and dry, and then lets go. It's the smallest of small gestures, but just for a moment, it seems so impossibly blatant that she can't help but stare at him.

"I should go," Ben adds. "I don't want Blaine to worry. But. You should come visit me, after the surgery. Let me know how my students are doing."

"I thought you'd never ask," Holly says, even though it's pretty much just a reflex. Because he can't be -- because he would never --

Ben's smile widens just a fraction. He starts to walk away, then stops, and turns, and looks back at her. "You know, Holly," he says, "You really do have remarkably good instincts. Perhaps you should start trusting them."

Then he drops his head, and leans on his cane, and makes his way towards the door.

 

 

*

 

When Ben was nine years old, his father told him that his people had captured five strangers walking into their territory. He said that he wanted Ben to bring them food, and ask them a question.

And Ben did what he was told. Because that was how it was then -- that was how he was. He did what he was told.

He's not nine years old anymore, of course. It's different, now.

Mostly.

"I see Kurt's got you started on a warm milk regimen, too," Carole says, coming into the kitchen. It's going to be strange, life with so many people around. He's used to a lot of privacy, a lot of space. It's going to be a struggle to adapt.

But he will, of course. He always does.

"Well, it was this or the horse placenta," Ben says; Carole freezes with her hand outstretched towards the tea kettle at the back of the stove. "Coach Sylvester gave it to me. As part of the faculty Secret Santa exchange. Apparently it aids with healing and bone regeneration. And, of course, thickens hair." He tugs at some of his short strands, and Carole smiles fondly at him. "But I thought I'd save that for after my surgery."

Carole just shakes her head and carries the kettle over to the sink, presumably to fill it up. "I'll be out of your way in a second," she says, raising her voice a little bit over the sound of the running water.

"Oh, there's no need," Ben says. He takes another sip of his warm milk -- it actually is rather pleasant; certainly more so than the placenta would be -- and turns back to the file opened up on the table in front of him. "Honestly. I don't mind the company."

Carole regards him for a moment, eyebrow raised. Then she turns towards the cupboards and pulls out a mug and a container of loose leaf tea. "That folder you're looking at," she says. "The one you just happened to have open when I walked into the room and haven't shut yet. You're not going to tell me that's your mysterious Oceanic survivor, are you? The woman who's coming after us? Or maybe your associate, the one you refuse to name?"

Ben pauses with his milk raised halfway to his lips. She's an interesting woman, Carole; somewhat more challenging to read than one would expect. Of course, so is her husband. Ben's heard that that's where good marriages come from, from people who have the important things in life in common. "I wasn't planning on it, no," he says. "Particularly since it wouldn't be true anyway, and I've heard it's bad form to lie to the people who are trying to help you save your son."

"I've heard that, too." Carole measures out her tea into the strainer, sets it carefully in the mug. Then she turns to look at Ben, arms folded against her chest. "And for the record, I'm glad. I mean, make no mistake: You are going to tell me and Burt about that last Oceanic survivor, and you are going to introduce us to your associate." She points one finger at him. "But you're going to do it _after_ you get through your surgery and come home from the hospital, and not a minute before."

The kettle whistles, and Carole turns to attend to it, which is a bit of a relief, as Ben is finding it impossible to suppress his smile.

"So who is she?" Carole asks. "I mean, that woman in the file you've been studying for the past half-hour. Who is she?"

"Katherine Anne Austen." Ben runs his fingertips over the top photograph, a young woman in a dirty t-shirt, her dark curls mussed, a slightly wild look in her eyes. _Trapped_ , Ben would call it. "Arsonist, murderer, bank robber, and fugitive. Apprehended in Australia. She was supposed to be brought to the United States to stand trial, but. She and the marshal escorting her boarded Oceanic Flight 815. Never made it back."

Carole takes her mug and carries it over to the table, frowning at him the entire time. "And you're sure she's not someone your people sent after you? Because I'm not gonna lie; she sounds like a good candidate."

"Indeed she does." Ben watches Carole sit down, then turns back to the photo again. "But to the best of my knowledge, if she did survive the crash, she never left the Island. She's probably still there today, somewhere."

"So why do you have her file?"

Ben shrugs and takes another sip of his milk. "When Miss --" He pauses, glances at Carole, smiles. "When my _associate_ told me that I was being pursued by survivors of Oceanic Flight 815, I thought it prudent to get my hands on a copy of the flight manifest and start doing a little research into the other passengers, to see if any of them looked familiar to me. That's how I found our last survivor, the one who wasn't in my associate's files -- I saw her passport photo, recognized her as someone I'd seen before and... Here we are."

Carole contemplates her tea for a moment. "But Katherine Anne Austen isn't someone you recognize," she suggests.

"Actually, she looks a great deal like someone I knew as a child," Ben says, and watches Carole's expression shift from understanding to puzzlement. "But I'm assuming that's just an extremely strange coincidence, since obviously if it was the same woman she'd be some thirty years older than she is in this particular photograph."

"Could be your friend's daughter, maybe?"

Ben shakes his head. "No. Believe me, I've got quite the file on Diane Austen. They're not the same woman. Just a coincidence, that's all." But his gaze returns, irresistably, to Kate Austen's mugshot.

Carole's quiet for a moment. Then her hand reaches out and covers his on the table. "And yet it's her file you drag out three nights before you're set to undergo spinal surgery," she says. "Whoever that woman was, when you were a child? She must've taken real good care of you."

Ben closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "She did," he says. "She really did."

Carole squeezes his hand briefly. He's expecting her to pull away when her grip loosens, but she doesn't. Her hand stays over his, her fingertips a little dry and a little rough, but comforting all the same. "Good for her," she says, and smiles. Then she adds, "Just so we're clear, I'm assuming that you've got some sort of backup plan and you're just not burdening me or Burt or Blaine or anyone with it. But there is a backup plan. Isn't there?"

"I always have a plan," Ben says, and manages to smile back at her. "If something goes wrong, you will be told everything you need to know. But. I don't believe any of that will be necessary. It's just... A measure of last resort."

Carole squeezes his hand again. "I'd rather _you_ tell us everything," she says, still smiling. She does have very kind eyes, Ben thinks. Motherly. In her way, she looks more like Miss Katie than Katherine Anne Austen ever could. "But. When you get out of the hospital. And not a day before."

"Duly noted," Ben says.

"So," Carole says, and finally lets go of him. "Do you want me to let you get back to Katherine Anne Austen now? Or did you actually mean it when you said you wanted company?"

Ben studies her face for a moment, then very deliberately shuts Kate Austen's file and lays it aside, setting it carefully on top of Juliet's note, which Carole has somehow failed to notice.

Carole beams at him before reaching across the table to take his mug. "Let me reheat that milk for you," she says, and stands, and turns to the microwave.

 

*

 

"Who are you?" she asks. It's the same question she always asks, every time the man in the suit gets close enough to talk to her, which isn't something that happens very often.

Blaine doesn't know how he knows that, but he does.

"I think you already know the answer to that, Kate," the man in the suit says. He's standing just outside the Barracks fence, not inside it like everyone else. Of course, that doesn't mean they're safe. The fence only keeps some things out, not everything. And not everyone, either.

The woman with the curly hair takes two steps back -- when she does, Blaine can see Walt in the distance, by the swingset. It's dark, _so_ dark, and Walt's navy Dalton jacket blends in with the night so well. But Blaine can still see him. He's not totally sure why. "I don't believe you," the woman says. "Who are you really?"

"You can't trust him," Walt says, but he's not talking to the woman. His eyes are on Blaine. "Promise me. Promise you won't trust him."

"Like I said," the man in the suit says again. "You already know. You're just not ready to admit it."

"Who is he?" Blaine asks, confused. "Who -- Did he leave the Island with you? I don't -- I don't understand."

"Just don't trust him," Walt says. "You can't trust him."

"Why are you here?" the woman asks. "Why are you -- _how_ are you --"

The man in the suit shrugs. "I'm here for the same thing that you are, Kate. Assuming you've figured out what that is." There's a pause, and then he smiles slyly and adds, "You have figured it out. Haven't you?"

The woman with the curly hair looks at the man in the suit, and then her face shifts from anger into fear. "No," she says. "No, you're not -- You stay away from him. I don't want you anywhere near him."

The man in the suit smiles; it's not a very nice expression. "Him?" he asks. "There's a lot of Hims on the Island, Kate -- you're gonna have to get more specific."

"He's not the doctor," Walt says. "He's not -- Remember that, okay? Remember. He's not the doctor."

"What?" Because Blaine's father's doctor -- he's met his father's doctor, and she's most definitely not a man in a suit, and -- "What do you mean he's not the doctor? Is he -- Is he going to hurt my father? Is that what --"

Then the woman with the curly hair is charging forward, so close to the Barracks fence that Blaine can't stop reaching out to stop her, even though he knows he can't touch her. He reaches out anyway and she pushes right past him, because Blaine can't do anything. He's not here. Just like with his father, when he was in the room, in the chair, and Blaine could see him and hear him but he couldn't touch him or help him or do _anything_ \--

"Stay away from him," the woman says again. "Stay away from Ben."

Then there's a whooshing sound and a sort of metallic chittering, and it's like the world fills with black smoke; Blaine can't even see the woman barely an inch in front of him, and he definitely can't see Walt. But he can still hear Walt's voice calling out to him.

"It's not your father," Walt says. "It's _you_. It's always been you."

And then it's just thick, black smoke and that strangely scuttling metallic sound.

_orange carpeted steps going up_

_GOD LOVES YOU AS HE LOVED JACOB_

"Blaine?"

_It's you. It's always been you._

"Blaine!"

Blaine is reaching out before he's even opened his eyes, pushing himself up with one hand and reaching out with the other, and his father must've been sitting on his bed for a long time, because he's there and reaching back and gathering Blaine close, letting Blaine fold around him and just cling tightly.

"It's all right," his father says, softly, and rubs Blaine's back and presses his cheek to Blaine's hair. "I'm here. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere, Blaine."

It's December 21st. In a few hours, Kurt and his father will be driving Blaine and his dad to the hospital. The doctors will sedate his father and lay him face down on the operating table and open him up and try to cut as much of the tumor away from his spine as they can without paralyzing him or killing him. And there's no way of knowing how well they'll do, not really, and there's no way of knowing what will happen to Blaine's father when (if) he wakes up again.

And now there is a man in a suit who isn't the doctor, and a woman with curly hair, and it's Blaine -- it has _always_ been Blaine. And Blaine doesn't know what it means. But right now, it doesn't matter. What matters is that his dad is going to go into the hospital and they're going to cut him open and then they're going to put him back together again and he's going to be all right. That's the only thing that matters. Everything else, even Walt, will have to wait.

"I'm not going anywhere," Blaine's father says. "I will always be right here with you."

When they put Blaine's father in that room and tried to break him, tried to _kill_ him, Blaine stopped them. He found his father and he went to him and he stopped them. He saved his dad.

"I won't let you go," Blaine mumbles, and presses his face into the warm smooth fabric of his dad's pajama shirt, and holds on tight. "I promise. I won't let go."

"Good," his father says, his voice cracking just a little bit. He pulls Blaine a little closer -- he's holding on too, and it helps Blaine feel a little better.

_It's always been you._


	9. Do No Harm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burt and Carole do their best to hold down the fort while Ben is in surgery, and Blaine prepares to help his father heal, just like he has before.

1980

 

She watches the four of them retreat into the dusk, Ben and Annie just two small shadows, their hands linked together, swinging as they walk. Shannon follows them, a little off to the side, Vincent trotting at her heels for maybe a minute before putting his muzzle to the ground, sniffing at something, then dashing ahead of them. Ben actually laughs; Kate can just barely hear it over the sound of Charlie's guitar, but she still recognizes the sound of it, and for some reason, it has her blinking back tears.

Ben doesn't laugh enough, not really.

She didn't laugh much either, when she was his age.

"I said maybe," Charlie sings, oblivious the way he usually is. Or, at least, the way he usually seems to be; Kate's pretty sure that Charlie's smarter than most people give him credit for. "You're gonna be the one that saves me. And after all, you're my --"

"That's an anachronism, you know," Kate says, as Ben runs after Vincent and Annie runs after him and Shannon just trails along behind, seemingly content to keep her distance (even though Kate knows Shannon better than that by now). "That song? Won't get written for another ten years, at least. Maybe longer."

Charlie stops singing, but he keeps strumming, vamping idly along. "Don't suppose it matters, do you?" he asks. "I mean, unless the Gallagher brothers are here right now, in which case I suppose they're going to owe me royalties one day. I'll have to keep that in mind. You know, for the future."

"For the future," Kate echoes, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. A curl of hair falls over her eyes; she purses her lips and blows it back again. Ben and Annie are long gone by now, of course, and even Shannon's bright blonde hair is being swallowed by the darkness as Kate watches. "What do you think happens to them? In the future?"

"What, the Gallagher brothers?" Charlie riffs idly for a moment or two, picking out a quick arpeggio before lapsing back into steady strumming. "Depends on whether they're still broken up or if they've gotten back together. Because if they've gotten back together, then they're probably going to break up again, and if they're still broken up, then --"

Kate sighs, tipping her head to look at him; Charlie's got that look on his face, and she knows he knows damn well what she's talking about. But she spells it out anyway, because she can, and because sometimes she needs to, if only for her own benefit. "I mean Ben and Annie," she says. "What do you think happens to them? After this."

Charlie nods; his fingers finally fall still, pressing down against the strings and quelling the music. The Barracks are quiet without it. Not silent, of course -- Kate can hear voices coming from a few bungalows down, the sound of tree frogs peeping in the distance, the rustle of leaves shifting in the wind. It's so peaceful, has been ever since the Truce was signed. But it won't stay peaceful forever; Kate knows that. She's lived it. "You're thinking about that pit," Charlie says, quietly. "All those bodies."

She's not, of course. Or, at least, she wasn't before Charlie reminded her. "Yeah," she says, without bothering to add a disclaimer, and reaches for her beer, still sweating on the little wicker table where she'd left it. It's more bitter than she'd like, but it's cold going down her throat. There's something satisfying in just having it, after going so long without. It reminds her of Sawyer, of the little bottles of vodka and rum he'd liberated from the fuselage before they'd had to burn it. She wonders where he is now. If he made it to the freighter, if he got off the Island, or if he's still here somewhere. Somewhen, maybe. "Yeah, I am."

"Well, then." Charlie reaches out for the bottle, and she passes it to him without even thinking twice. "I mean, it's hard to say. We've no idea when it's going to happen, do we? Could be days, could be months, could be years. Maybe they get off the Island before it happens. Maybe they're, y'know. Some little house somewhere. Kids. A dog. They could call him Vincent Two, maybe. Or I guess they'd be on Vincent Three, at least. Four if one of 'em got hit by a car or something."

He passes the bottle back without ever drinking from it, and so Kate takes his swig for him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and then setting the bottle back down on the table. "Yeah," she says, and doesn't mention what John told her, the day before the sky turned purple. That she didn't need to worry about anything, that everything was going to be okay. That when Ben Linus returned to the Island, he'd fix everything. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Hmm." That's all, and when Kate glances at Charlie out of the corner of her eye, he's staring into the darkness the same way that she was. "And all the roads we have walk are winding," he sings, eyes fixed forward. "And all the lights that lead the way..."

 

*

 

Both Blaine's hands close around his, and their eyes lock, hazel on blue. "Okay," Blaine says. "Eyes on me, Dad."

Ben breathes out slowly. He keeps his eyes on Blaine's, tries to concentrate all his attention on the hand his son is holding, tries not to think about his other arm, the one the anestheiologist is swabbing with alcohol. He looks at Blaine and holds his son's hand and tries to keep from holding his breath, tries not to brace himself for the initial prick of the needle.

_"Hold him, hold him --"_

_"Dammit, Roger, keep him still!"_

_"I'm trying --"_

"Dad," Blaine says, chidingly, and Ben's eyes flutter open again, meet his son's. "Look at me, okay? Just... Just look at me."

"I really hate needles," Ben says, and Blaine smiles at him.

"I know."

"Well, then the worst part should be over," Dr. Mitchell says, and pats Ben's arm. He thinks it's supposed to be a soothing gesture, but he can feel the I.V. line in his arm wiggling with the movement, which doesn't exactly calm him down. But he looks at Blaine, and he keeps breathing. "Smooth sailing from here on."

Apart from the little matter of the anesthesia, and the operation, and the tumor, but Ben doesn't point that out. He just keeps his eyes locked on his son's.

"You're going to start to feel tired now, Dad," Blaine says, his voice steady, reassuring, lulling. "Because of the anesthetic for the surgery. But that's all it's going to be. It's just to put you out for the surgery, and when it's over, you'll wake up again. There's going to be a tube in your throat, so you can breathe, but we'll take it out when you wake up. And if you want to leave the I.V. in so you can have something for the pain, you can, but no one's going to make you keep it in if you don't want to, and no one's going to give you anything you don't want to take. I promise."

Blaine looks away from Ben for that moment only, giving the anesthesiologist a warning look, and Ben can't fight his smile; in fact, he's still smiling when Blaine meets his eyes again.

"And I'll be there," Blaine says, and manages to smile back, although it's obviously hard for him. But then, it's a lot, letting go of his father this way, not knowing what'll happen next. "I'll be here until you fall asleep, and I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

Ben squeezes Blaine's hands as best he can with his one free hand. Then he settles back into the gurney, but he doesn't let his eyes close. Not yet.

"I'm not leaving you," he says, and sees Blaine's eyes go glassy with tears. "I'm not going anywhere."

Blaine nods, and pulls one of his hands away to wipe at his eyes with it. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you too."

"Okay," Blaine says, and musters up one last smile. "Count back from twenty for me, okay?"

Ben takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and begins. "Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen..."

He keeps his eyes on Blaine for as long as he can, until it's physically impossible for him to keep them open anymore.

 

*

 

There is a man in a ragged shirt and dirty pants in the corner of the room. He is skinny and small and sunken-in, like he's made out of sticks, like a crude doll or something, but he's not a doll. He's a man.

Only he's not a man, either, or he's not just a man.

He's Blaine's father.

"Dad?" Blaine asks, voice quavering -- Mr. Widmore reaches out and puts his hand on Blaine's shoulder, and Blaine doesn't flinch away from him even though he wants to, because he can't. He has to be very very nice to Mr. Widmore right now, even if he doesn't like him. It's the only way to turn this bundle of sticks back to his father again.

The stick-man's eyes flutter open; he squints into the light, squints at Mr. Widmore a little bit, then drops his eyes to squint at Blaine. There's a long period of silence where Blaine thinks his father doesn't know him anymore, when he thinks that Mr. Widmore actually did what he set out to do, that he made Blaine's father forget. But then the stick-man opens his mouth.

"Luh," he says, voice rough and croaky. "Luh. Hnnnn. Luhhnnn."

Blaine feels like something's sitting on his chest. He feels like he can't breathe.

"Luhhnnnn," his father says again.

"Blaine," Blaine tells him, and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "It's Blaine, dad. Do you remember me? Blaine?"

"Luhnn," his father says, and then shakes his head and he looks so exactly like himself when he does it that Blaine really starts crying then, because Mr. Widmore didn't win. He didn't win. " _Lay_ ," his father says. "Hnnn. _Layhhnn_."

Then he lifts up one arm like he's reaching out, and Blaine breaks free of Mr. Widmore's hold and stumbles over, stumbling because he wants to run but he can't, because his father is so thin and so fragile and he's just like sticks, and if Blaine moves too fast he'll hurt his father and he can't do that -- he can't hurt his father. So he's very very careful when he kneels down by his father, and very very gentle when he wraps his arms around his father and hugs him close for the first time in such a very, very long time.

His father's outstretched arm folds slowly around Blaine's back, and Mr. Widmore didn't win. Blaine's father remembers him. He _remembers_.

"Layhnn," his father sighs, and Blaine's hands clench into fists in his father's baggy shirt, and he cries and cries and cries.

 

*

 

"Medium drip," Kurt says, handing Blaine's coffee over to him. "With cream, two sugars, and a little nutmeg on top. Told you I knew your order."

He settles into the chair on Blaine's left, twining their free hands together. When he looks over, he can see Blaine smiling as he leans down to sip at his coffee. "Thank you," he says, softly, and Kurt squeezes his hand.

"Any time." When Kurt looks up, he sees his father looking up from his copy of _Hemmings' Classic Cars_ , eyes fixed on them. He makes a face, and his father raises an eyebrow at him, but then sighs and turns back to his magazine. Kurt shifts as close to Blaine as he can get with the armrests of their chairs in the way. "So do you want me to distract you, or do you just want me to... to be here?"

"Just be here," Blaine says, shifting close enough to Kurt that their shoulders brush. "That's all I want."

Blaine's eyes flutter shut as he takes another sip of his coffee, and Kurt strokes his thumb across the back of Blaine's hand. "You could sleep a little if you wanted," he suggests. "It's probably not very comfortable, but I'd keep an eye on you. And I'd wake you up if anything happened. I promise."

"Thanks, but..." Blaine shakes his head. "I don't think I could sleep. But thank you."

"Okay," Kurt says, and doesn't tell Blaine not to thank him, because that's probably not what Blaine needs to hear. Anyway, Blaine's got a lot more to think about right now, anyway. Kurt knows. It wasn't that long ago that he was the one in Blaine's position, sitting, waiting. And then it was Blaine's dad's turn. And now it's Blaine's.

Kurt doesn't want to think about who might be next.

"I'm sorry," Blaine adds, quietly. "I wish I'd known you sooner. I could've been here. For you. When your dad was... I would've been here, if I'd known you."

Kurt looks over at his father again; his father is staring very intently at his magazine. "I know you would've," Kurt says, quietly. And then, because he can't help it, he adds, "How did you know that was what I was thinking of? Did you -- can you hear --"

Blaine actually laughs at that, just the quietest little puff of air. "It's not like that," he says. "I can't just... I don't read minds, not really. I was just thinking how much worse this would be, if I was alone. And I remembered that you were, and I... But that's all. I'm not eavesdropping, or anything."

"But what about -- In the choir room?" Kurt flushes and looks at his dad, who he thinks is maybe kind of smirking a little. "You knew that I that I believed you, you _said_ \--"

"I guess I just..." Blaine shrugs. "Because I figured you wouldn't ask me about the ocean, not the way you did, if you didn't believe there was an ocean to ask about. And I... Because _you_ \--" But then he looks at Kurt's dad, and it's his turn to flush. "I kind of just... I figured you wouldn't have done what you did if you didn't believe me, I guess. But I can't just tune your thoughts in like a radio or something. It doesn't work that way."

"So how does it work?" Kurt asks, and then immediately mentally kicks himself; Blaine's not a lab rat. "I'm sorry -- you don't have to --"

"I think..." Blaine's grip tightens on Kurt's hand, like he's afraid that Kurt's going to pull away, even though that's the last thing on Kurt's mind. "I don't know exactly how it works. But I think... I think the other person has to want me to hear them. Or at least they have to want someone to hear them; it doesn't necessarily have to be me. But if it's someone... If they're calling out, if they need help or... I think that's when I hear them. When they need me to."

Which is kind of awful, when Kurt thinks about it. Because that would mean that Blaine heard his father calling out for help, maybe even heard him _screaming_ , and --. "But you don't hear him now, do you?" he asks, and tries to keep the urgency out of his voice. "Your father, I mean. He's okay. So you can't hear him."

"I think so," Blaine says, but he sounds unsteady, unsure. "I mean, I can't hear him, so I think he's -- I hope he's okay. I'm not sure, but I -- I hope so."

All Kurt can do is lean a little more heavily against Blaine, tip their heads together. "He'll be fine," he says, as reassuringly as he can muster. "He'll be just fine."

"I hope so," Blaine repeats, and Kurt budges in as close as he can and wraps his arm around Blaine's shoulders, pulling him in tight.

And Kurt's dad is still watching them from behind his magazine, but for some reason it doesn't make Kurt embarrassed or annoyed anymore. It makes him feel...

It makes him feel safe.

 

*

 

"Blaine," his father says, one thin hand resting on Blaine's shirt. "Blaine."

Blaine smiles at him. "Good," he says. "Very good. Now you." Then he picks up his father's hand and pushes it back until it's covering his dad's chest, right above his sternum. His dad looks down at their hands, then back up at him, puzzled. "You, Dad. Who are you?"

"Dad," his father repeats, and then smiles. He smiles differently than he used to -- he smiles wider, like he's happier. Blaine supposes he should feel good about that, but he can't. He doesn't know why. There's just something... There's something wrong with his father's smile.

"No, Dad," he says, and squeezes his father's hand. "Your name. What's your name?"

The smile falls from his father's face; he squints down at the porch. He's trying so hard; Blaine can see it in the way he squints, the way his shoulders bunch up, like he's pushing something heavy or straining to lift something. "Beh," his father says, and shakes his head, and tries again. "Beh-- Benn." He says the "n" really strong, like he's playing with it. "Bennnjamin Ly-- Linus. Benjamin Linus."

"Good." Blaine squeezes his father's hand. "Good. That's really good, Dad."

"Dad," his father repeats again, and smiles, and Blaine smiles back at him. "Love," his father adds, and pushes Blaine's hand against his own chest. "Love."

Blaine tugs on their hands until he can pull them back to cover his own heart. "Love," he says.

"How's he doing?" Ethan's voice startles Blaine so much that he almost topples off the stool he's perched on, but his dad's fingers tighten in his shirt, and his other hand grabs on to Blaine's arm, steadying him. "Whoa, whoa. Sorry, Blaine. Didn't mean to scare you."

"Blaine," his dad says again, but his eyes are fixed on Ethan, and he doesn't sound happy or proud anymore; he sounds scary. "Blaine. _Mine_."

Ethan raises his hands up, takes a step back. "Okay," he says, taking a step back. "Well. Sounds like he's getting back to normal, then. Glad to hear it."

Blaine's never liked Ethan. He's not really sure why, he just... He doesn't like Ethan. And he knows that Mr. Widmore likes Ethan, and he knows that Mr. Widmore was the one who let Blaine go to the other Island and rescue his father and take him home to fix him, but he also knows that Mr. Widmore was the person who sent his father off to be broken in the first place. So he doesn't trust Mr. Widmore, not really. So he can't trust Ethan, either.

He slides off his stool and steps sideways until he's in front of his father, and his father reaches out and grabs Blaine's arms with thin, strong fingers. "What do you want?" he asks. "Did... Did Mr. Widmore send you?"

Ethan smiles a little; he doesn't have a very nice smile. "Nope," he says, cheerfully. "Just thought I'd see how your dad's doing, make sure the recovery's going okay. Gotta make sure you two are ready, when the time comes."

Blaine's heart is suddenly too big and too loud and beats too hard in his chest. "Ready?" he asks, voice shaking. His father's hands tighten on his arms and pull him back until he's bumping up against his father's knees, and the problem is that Blaine's dad is too skinny. He's not strong like he was anymore. He's not strong enough to fight. "Ready for what?"

Ethan just winks at him. "You'll see," he says, and turns away.

"Mine," Blaine's father calls out, one last time, and his arms wrap around Blaine's shoulders from behind, pulling him close. "Blaine. _Mine_."

"Couldn't agree more, Benjamin," Ethan replies as he strolls away. "Couldn't agree more."

As soon as Ethan's gone, Blaine turns around and buries his face in his dad's shirt collar; his dad strokes soothingly at his back.

"Mine," he says again, and "Blaine," and " _love_."

 

*

 

"How long have they been out?" Carole asks, settling down in the chair next to Burt's and passing him a cup of coffee (strong, black -- kids aren't the only ones who can know each other's coffee orders, after all.)

Burt shrugs, eyes still on the two teenage boys in the seats opposite. Honestly, he's amazed they're sleeping at all, what with the way Kurt's got himself draped over the arm of his chair so it digs into his ribcage and Blaine's injured leg is pressing against the arm of his chair. But then, Kurt's got his arms wrapped around Blaine and his face buried in Blaine's ungelled hair, and Blaine's tucked his face into Kurt's neck and has his fingers tangled up with Kurt's, and maybe that's enough for them right now. "Hour or so," Burt says. "Figure there's no hurry in waking them up, not if Ben's back is as bad as you said it is."

"Judging by those MRIs I saw? It's pretty bad," Carole admits. "I'm not worried -- Ben's got Dr. Pradhury and Dr. Mitchell; he'll be fine. But it's going to be a long one." She sighs and rests her cheek against Burt's shoulder, cuddling in. "I usually get lunch around 12:30 when I've got the day shift, so I'd say... If they can sleep that long, let them. And I'll bring you something around then, so you can all stay together."

Something about the tone of her voice catches Burt a little funny, and he feels himself tensing up, gripping his coffee tighter. "Someone here who isn't supposed to be?" he asks.

"Mmm." Carole rests a hand on his arm; Burt's pretty sure it's supposed to be calming, but it's not, quite. "Just Jarrah. I think he thinks he's being sneaky, but... Honestly, the guy looks like the cover of those romance novels Betsy's so fond of, the ones with the Lusty Desert Sheikhs? Needless to say, he doesn't exactly blend in."

"Blending in may not be the point," Burt says. "Maybe he's running interference for that friend of his, the one Ben knows. Maybe he's keeping you distracted so she can sneak in and --"

"And that's why you're here with Kurt and Blaine," Carole points out, squeezing Burt's arm. "Believe me, I am a lot more worried about you and the boys than I am about me. I'm out there surrounded by people and cameras, but you -- You're in one of the more isolated parts of the building. And don't get me wrong; it'll be darn hard for anyone to get in here, but if they _do_ , Burt... You can't worry about me right now. Worry about them. I can handle myself."

"Right," Burt says, and shoots her a look out of the corner of his eye. There's something he doesn't like about the way she's been with about this whole Sayid Jarrah thing. Because, yeah, if her friend Nadia really winds up being the person that helps them turn Jarrah from a friend to a foe, that's fantastic, and good for her. But she's just so sure she's got Jarrah pegged. That she has the situation under control. Burt's not sure it's justified. "I mean, Sayid Jarrah, he's just some guy. Who used to be a Communications Officer for the Iraqi Republican Guard, which if that isn't a euphemism for something, then I don't know --"

"Thought you didn't want to wake the kids, Burt," Carole says, softly.

It's a cheap trick, and Burt knows it, but he can't help but look over at Kurt and Blaine, curled towards each other even in their sleep, clinging to each other like their lives depend on it. And the thing is, he doesn't want to wake them. At all. And he doesn't want anyone else to wake them, either. And he damn sure doesn't want that person to be Jarrah.

But if it is? He needs to be here. Carole might have not have the situation pegged the way she thinks she does, but that doesn't mean the kids don't need him more.

He tips his head back and closes his eyes. "Dammit all to Hell," he mutters.

"I knew you'd see it my way in the end," is Carole's wry response. But she squeezes his arm again, even leans in and kisses him on the cheek. "I won't do anything I don't have to do," she says. "But right now one of us needs to be out there running interference, and that's me. You stay here, keep an eye on the kids. I'll let you know when the coast is clear."

When she goes to pull away, Burt grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her back. "Listen to me," he says, softly. "Be. Careful. Got that?"

Carole kisses him again, and he isn't a fan of the way she's smiling when she pulls back, that little knowing edge to it like her inner adrenaline junky has just been waiting for a chance to come out and play. But he knows there's not much more he can do but trust her.

"I'll be careful," she says, and pats his cheek, and turns away. She looks back at him one last time before they buzz her out of the room again, and he watches her go, and he really, really hates her being out there while he's stuck in here. He really does.

But then he turns back and looks at Kurt and Blaine, the way they've tucked themselves together like little kids frightened of the dark, and the truth is that he wouldn't want to be out there if they're in here, so.

Some situations just suck no matter where you are, and this is definitely one of them.

 

*

 

Sometimes Blaine lets his dad take his nap outside on the porch. It scares him, because anyone could walk by while his father's asleep, and they could do anything they wanted, but he also feels like he has to, because his dad was inside so long and being inside too long can make you sick. And he doesn't want his dad to get sick, because his dad is sick enough already. So sometimes Blaine lets his dad nap on the porch in his rocking chair, and he sits next to him with a pile of books and tries to figure out what they're going to read next.

It's harder than it used to be, choosing books -- when they first started reading together, they used Blaine's little kid books, with small words and big pictures. But now Blaine's dad has moved on to bigger words, which means they read bigger books. Which is a problem, because there's things in the big books that Blaine doesn't want to read to his dad. They were reading _Watership Down _together, before, and it was okay because Blaine could sit on his father's lap with his father's arms around him and even during the scary parts he always felt safe. But now Blaine's dad is the one who needs to feel safe, and he's too tall to sit on Blaine's lap, and Blaine can't get his arms all the way around him even if he is skinnier than before, so they can't read _Watership Down_ anymore. They read _Stuart Little_ , and that went okay, and then Blaine found a book called _Of Mice and Men_ and thought that might be good too. But he thought he should read it himself before he read it to his father and he's very glad he did, because there weren't any mice in that book, just two men, and one of them had a puppy but it died, and then there was a woman and she died, and then one of the men shot the other man and _he_ died, and Blaine had to sleep in his dad's bed that night and it was bad but at least he hadn't read the book to his father because he thinks that might have been worse, overall.__

__(He still hasn't forgotten what happened when they read _Alice in Wonderland_ together, when they got to the part with the playing cards. Just the playing cards, painting roses, but they made Blaine's dad start shaking and then he couldn't stop, and then he didn't eat for half a day, and even though Blaine's dad has forgotten all about the cards now... There's always something. And Blaine's trying his hardest, but he just can't seem to get it all.)_ _

__But he's been looking at _The Once and Future King_ , and it's not perfect but Blaine thinks it might be okay, as long as he only reads the first part with Wat and Merlin and then skips everything else. So he's re-reading the first chapter of that, sitting on the steps of the porch while his dad naps in his chair. It's not the chair they had when they first moved into this house, not the old rocking chair -- his dad can't look at that chair anymore. Tom gave them a big chair called an Adirondack, and painted it blue just to be on the safe side. That's his father's chair now. That's where he's sleeping, while Blaine sits and reads and tries to remember if his dad saw any pictures of owls when he was in that room (he thinks he didn't, but he's not sure)._ _

__Then suddenly Ethan's in front of him with a finger pressed to his lips, shushing him, and Blaine doesn't say anything but he does climb backwards up the steps until he's pressed close to his father's leg. And he thinks it might wake his father up (he _hopes_ it might wake his father up) but his father just stays asleep._ _

__"Thought I'd bring you some new reading material," Ethan says, very very quietly, and he holds out a book._ _

__After a second or two, Blaine reaches out and takes it from him. It's beige, and the only picture on the front is one Blaine's seen before -- it's on all the cans and jars and bottles in his kitchen, on the walls of some of the buildings in the Barracks, on the patches on the jumpsuits his dad still has hanging up in the closet. Broken lines around a black circle, with one word in the middle. _DHARMA.__ _

__"Gal -- Ga- _la_ -gah," Blaine says, sounding out the first unfamiliar word on the cover. "Operations and Systems Manual rev three dot two dot --"_ _

__"It's about submarines," Ethan says, and smiles at him, that smile that makes Blaine feel sick and scared and unhappy. "Your dad likes submarines, doesn't he?"_ _

__It's a mean question to ask, like Blaine's just some little kid, like he's stupid, like his _dad_ is stupid, and Blaine wants to think of a mean answer but he can't but even if he could he probably couldn't say it anyway, so he just looks at Ethan and doesn't say anything at all._ _

__Ethan sighs. "Listen to me, Blaine," he says. "Because this is very important. Do you know why they took your father away from you and put him in Room 23? Tell me the truth."_ _

__And for some reason, Blaine actually does tell the truth. "Because he chose me," Blaine says, softly. "He -- They wanted him to choose the Island. But he chose me."_ _

__"That's right," Ethan says. "He chose you. And he's going to keep choosing you, Blaine, no matter what they do to him. And the only way you can keep him safe is to get him as far away from the Island as you possibly can." He reaches out and taps the cover of the book in Blaine's hand. "This is how you're going to do it."_ _

__"But I can't --" Because Blaine knows he knows more words than most kids his age, and that he reads books he's too young to read, but that doesn't mean he can pilot a submarine -- he can't even reach the pedals of a DHARMA van, so how could he --_ _

__"You can't play Rachmaninoff either," Ethan says, and Blaine's not sure why, but he suddenly feels like he needs to hold very, very still and not move or even really breathe. It's just -- "But he can. If you're there on the piano bench, sitting next to him? He plays beautifully then."_ _

__And Blaine wants to tell him that it's different. He wants to tell Ethan that it's not the same, that his father could play before, that the only reason he needs Blaine there with him now is so Blaine can remind him ---_ _

__But Ethan's not supposed to know about all the things that Blaine's dad knows, the things that Blaine has reminded him that he knows._ _

__No one's supposed to know about those things, not even the Rachmaninoff._ _

__Ethan pretends to zip his lips shut, and then smiles again, and Blaine presses his lips tight together and forces himself not to cry. "I won't tell anyone," Ethan says. "I promise. I won't tell. But sooner or later, they will find out. And when they do, they will take him away from you, Blaine, and they _will_ hurt him. And it won't be as easy to save him this time. In fact, you might not be able to do it at all. So I strongly suggest you take this book and read it to your father -- show him all the pictures, make sure it's all there in his head, so that when the time comes, he _remembers_ it. And that's all you have to do, Blaine. Just make sure that when the time comes, he remembers what he needs to remember. I'll take care of the rest."_ _

__"Why?" Blaine asks, because he can't help it. Because he needs to know._ _

__"Because." Ethan stands up, brushing his hands off on his pants, and even though Blaine's on the very top step of the porch, having Ethan standing over him makes him feel very, very small. "Because it doesn't matter that your father will never choose the Island. The Island still chose him. And when it's done with him, when it breaks him, then it's going to choose you. And break you. Because you don't want the Island either."_ _

__"But you do," Blaine whispers, because he understands. He understands all kinds of things that he's too young to understand._ _

__Ethan doesn't say _yes_ or nod or do anything like that. He just looks at Blaine for a long time. Then he turns and walks away._ _

__As soon as he's gone, Blaine climbs up into the Adirondack chair, into his father's lap, and buries his face in his father's shirt. His dad wakes up a little, arms wrapping around Blaine and pulling him in closer, and Blaine feels like he might be safe to start crying now, but he doesn't. He just hides there in his father's arms, the submarine book still tightly held in both hands._ _

____

 

__*_ _

____

 

__"So," the woman says, as the elevator doors slide shut, affording them a small moment of privacy in the midst of the crowded hospital. "You're Sayid Jarrah."_ _

__It's not entirely unexpected. Sayid hadn't been in the hospital more than fifteen minutes before he noticed the woman, watching him. And after that, of course, she seemed to be everywhere. Always watching him, with that same raised eyebrow, as though he were doing something she deeply disapproved of, and she was only waiting for a chance to lecture him for it._ _

__For some reason, it left him off-balance, unsettled._ _

__"I'm sorry," he says, as politely as possible. "Have we met before?"_ _

__"No, but you knew my husband," the woman tells him. She shifts the styrofoam containers of food balanced in her arms; Sayid wonders if perhaps he's made a tactical mistake, offering to help her carry lunch to her friends. He'd thought that it might be his chance to get close -- not to Benjamin Linus, of course, but to the people protecting him, his chance to learn them and their weaknesses, so he could get around them. He wasn't expecting any of them to already know him. "Not Burt, I mean. My first husband. Chris. The two of you met in Iraq, a long time ago."_ _

__"Is that so." It's not a question -- Sayid knew several Americans when he lived in Iraq. They didn't exactly meet under the best of circumstances, and he can't pretend he was sorry to see them go, but he did know them. And if this woman knows, or at least _knew_ , one of the men who held Sayid as a prisoner, who taught him how to -- Well. "I'm curious. What did he tell you about me?"_ _

__"Nothing." The woman looks at him, her gaze calm and steady. "Chris never talked about the war. Whatever he did there, he was too ashamed to ever speak of it. He couldn't even --" And the calmness in her abruptly shatters; she presses her lips together, but not quickly enough to stop him from seeing how her eyes have filled with tears._ _

__It occurs to Sayid that the elevator should have stopped some time ago, but it's still steadily climbing._ _

__The woman catches her breath, raises her eyes to his again. "If it wasn't for your friend Noor Abed Jaseem," she says, and Sayid jolts at the sound of her name after all this time, "I wouldn't know anything at --"_ _

__"How do you know Nadia?" He can't stop himself from stepping in, stepping closer. "Who do you work for? How do you --"_ _

__"I work for the radiology department, Sayid," the woman says, her eyes never leaving his. "And I know Nadia because she came to me. Because she was looking for you. Because after everything you've done, after everyone you've hurt, she thought there was something in you still worth loving and she wanted me to help her find you."_ _

__The elevator shudders to a halt, and Sayid barely collects himself in time to step away from the woman before the doors slide open. There's no one there, thankfully, just an empty hallway._ _

__The woman presses another button, and after a long pause, the doors grind shut again, the elevator starting its downward descent._ _

__"Here's the thing, Sayid," the woman says. "I want to believe Nadia's right about you. I really do. Because if I believe her, then I can help her, and I'd really, really like to do that. But then I stop and think about the fact that the only reason you're even here is because you're trying to kidnap a high school math teacher and his teenage son, and that makes me wonder if maybe Nadia's not wrong about you after all. If maybe she'd be better off without you._ _

__"But I do think that if you were to leave the hospital right now, and not come back again... Well. If nothing else, that would prove that you're capable of seeing reason. Which is a start."_ _

__"Benjamin Linus is no math teacher," Sayid says, and feels whatever small hope he had growing inside him abruptly wither and die. "And whatever he's told you to say, I'm not about to --"_ _

__"Oh, please." The woman gives him a look of undisguised scorn. "If Ben's not a math teacher, then why the hell does he spend ten hours a day at the high school? And nobody puts words in my mouth, Sayid Jarrah. Not Ben, not Burt, not anyone. If you think I'm lying, that's one thing. But don't insult me. And if you don't believe me, then consider this: You met a lot of Americans during the war, but you only ever met one you could trust. You can find him in Oakview Cemetery. Northeast corner. I'm sure his flowers are dead by now, but there's a flag -- "_ _

__She chokes on the words, drops her eyes again. Strange how the only time she looks away is when she speaks of her husband, as though it's a pain too strong to bear._ _

__For some reason, that's what makes him want to believe her._ _

__"Oakview Cemetary, northeast corner. Look for the little flag." The elevator shudders to a halt -- there's a pause, and then the doors slide open. "If you could just give me those drinks now."_ _

__She turns and holds out her stack of boxes -- after one last moment of hesitation, Sayid sets the tray of coffees on top._ _

__She's halfway out of the elevator before Sayid thinks of one last question to ask her. "Wait," he calls out. "What is your name?"_ _

__The woman turns back, and almost seems to smile at him. "It's Carole," she says. "Carole Hudson-Hummel."_ _

__The _Hudson_ will be her first husband's name, of course. And _Hummel_ will be the second. Just in case Sayid needs some kind of backup plan. "Thank you," Sayid says._ _

__The elevator doors slide closed again, and Sayid presses the button for the ground floor. He'll leave Carole and her friends alone._ _

__For now._ _

____

 

__*_ _

____

 

__He doesn't know how long it takes his father to fall asleep, but he knows when it happens, because that's when his father finally stops apologizing. He stops saying that he's sorry, sorry for what Blaine witnessed; he goes quiet and still. Peaceful, for a little while._ _

__But not for long. Because Blaine can't take away what his father saw, this time; he can't make his father forget what he had to do. He can't wipe away the submarine and the gun and the blood and the look on Grandpa Roger's face right before Blaine's father pulled the trigger -- he can't erase it. It'll never, ever go away._ _

__He knows it had to happen. He knows it was the only thing that would make his father safe. But he never knew that saving his father would hurt this much, and he wishes he'd never had to find out._ _

__"I'm sorry, Dad," he whispers, and his father doesn't wake up but he does seem to pull Blaine a little closer, hold him a little tighter. "I'm so sorry."_ _

____

 

__*_ _

____

 

__He floats for a little bit, anchored only by the feeling that there's something blocking his throat, that there's something coming out of his arm ( _they want you to forget don't forget you can't forget_ ), and then there's a tug at his hand -- a grip warm and familiar and reassuring, and he feels himself once again fully within his body. His back feels... It doesn't feel, numbed as though with novocaine, and there's a needle in his arm, and there are tubes --_ _

___No one's going to make you keep it in if you don't want to_ , Blaine had told him. _And no one's going to give you anything you don't want to take.__ _

__Blaine._ _

___I'll be there when you wake up._ _ _

__Ben opens his eyes, and there, hovering over him, is his son._ _

__"Hi, Dad," Blaine says, softly._ _

__With the tube in his throat, Ben can't speak, but it doesn't matter. Blaine understands. He has always understood._ _

__"Love you too," he says, and smiles, and leans in to kiss his father's forehead._ _

____

 

__*_ _

____

 

__1980_ _

____

 

__The first time she met him, he asked her if she was a Hostile._ _

__It made sense, then. They'd just come out of the jungle -- Kate and Charlie and Shannon and Daniel and Charlotte and Miles -- strangers, obviously not part of the DHARMA Initiative, and to most people on the Island, especially to a nine year-old boy, there were only two kinds of people on the Island. So she understood just why Ben Linus would think she was a Hostile -- what else was he supposed to think?_ _

__But then Kate and her friends were released, and the word got around that they were a shipwrecked salvage team, not hostiles at all, and they got to know a few other people on the Island besides Horace and Amy and Ben. Kate got to know Ben's father -- the way he treated his son, the way he drank all the time, the way he'd stumble out of his cabin at night and linger by the sonic fence, staring out into the jungle like he was looking for something._ _

__Or someone, maybe._ _

__The thing is, Kate's had three years to think about her conversation with John Locke, and about the little boy she met less than a week after (but almost thirty years before) that conversation happened. And one thing she realized pretty early on? For Ben to become the leader of the Hostiles, leader of the Others, he has to leave the DHARMA Initiative. And one thing that's been pretty clear is that he's not going to go on his own. Someone has to take him._ _

__Someone who's been skulking around the fence, looking into the jungle, like he's waiting for someone._ _

__Kate doesn't really understand time travel, not the way that Daniel does. She doesn't have that understanding of what she can and can't do, what's permitted and what's forbidden. She doesn't know what, if anything, she can change._ _

__But one thing she knows absolutely -- she is not just going to lay down and let Roger Linus carry his son off to join the Hostiles. No way in Hell._ _


	10. The Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn knows that he's in just as much danger as anyone else. What he doesn't know is that he's just as brave and just as necessary and just as useful as everyone else.

He knows he probably shouldn't be here.

Or at least, he shouldn't be here alone.

The thing is, he doesn't need his mom or Burt or even Mr. Anderson to tell him that he's in as much danger as anyone else. Which isn't to say that they haven't, because they have. Even Mr. Anderson, who isn't Finn's parent or step-parent but who did have some really useful advice about how to turn a chair into a weapon, which Finn kind of wants to try, actually. Except that he'd have to be attacked to try it, and he doesn't want to be attacked. And he knows, he really does know, that being alone is a really good way to get attacked.

But the problem is, there's some things he can't do with other people around. Like before Blaine's father's surgery, when Kurt asked Finn to go away so he and Blaine could talk privately, and Finn did, and then Kurt and Blaine didn't talk so much as they made out, which they couldn't have done with Finn around, which is probably why Kurt wanted to be alone. Which is a pretty good reason to want to be alone, honestly. No one wants other people around when they make out. It's weird.

Except Finn doesn't want to be alone so he can make out with anyone, because lately it feels like he can't make out with Rachel anymore. Partially because he knows he's in danger and he doesn't want her to be in danger too. But also partially because he feels like he's lying to her, and it makes him feel guilty, and he can't make out with her when he feels like that. And usually if he felt guilty, he'd talk to Rachel, but he can't talk to her. He could talk to Kurt, maybe, but Kurt's got other things on his mind. And his mom's busy, and Burt's worried, and Blaine has to concentrate on his dad, and Blaine's dad has to have the tumor out of his back. And he's pretty sure that Mr. Schue and Miss P would just think he was making things up or on drugs or making things up to hide the fact that he's on drugs, so he can't talk to them, either.

But he can always talk to his dad.

Even if his dad doesn't always talk back.

"I'm sorry I didn't visit before the wedding," he says, and lays the little wreath he brought along for decoration down on the dead grass. It's bitter cold, but it hasn't snowed yet and everything he touches feels like it's about to just snap under his hands. The only thing that's remotely solid is his father's headstone, so he rests his hand on it and lets it numb his skin. He probably should've worn gloves. "I was gonna, but things got a little crazy. I figure you probably understand, though. I mean, if you're watching. If you saw, you understand.

"It's going okay, though, so far. I like Burt. I mean, I liked him before, but... I kind of feel like he's doing what you would be doing, if you were here, and that's good. I mean, I guess I don't really know what you would do, if you were here. But I'd like to think you'd want to help them. Blaine and his dad, I mean. I think you'd... I think you'd try to help, too.

"I wish you were here."

The letters on the headstone blur in front of his eyes, and he has to pull his cold hand away from the stone to wipe away his tears. And then his nose starts running, so he has to wipe that, and then his hand is gross so he has to wipe it off on his coat before he can touch his father's headstone again, because he doesn't want to get snot on it. Which is maybe weird, because he's cried on his mom's shoulder a bunch of times, and he gets snot all over her then and she doesn't seem to mind, but it's... it's different, somehow. "I don't know, I just feel like... There's nothing I can do. I'm not a soldier, I can't... I can't shoot a gun or anything. I mean, I can now, but I'm not good at it. Kurt's a lot better than me, and Blaine's a lot better than me, and yeah he's had more practice, but he's also only got one leg which you'd think would make it harder, but he can hit like every target, and I just... can't. And Mom's doing all this stuff -- you'd be so proud of her, Dad, you really would -- and it's amazing how she's figuring out things and coming up with really awesome ideas but she's also like super-smart and I'm not smart at all, so I can't do what she's doing. And Kurt's helping Blaine, and Burt's been helping Blaine's dad, and I just... I can't do anything. I mean, I didn't even come up with the caroling thing. That was all Rachel's idea. I don't have any ideas. All I can do is play football and play the drums and sing sometimes. I'm not good... I'm not good at anything.

"I just wish I was good at something. I just... I just wish I could _do_ something."

There is a distinct _crunch_ as someone crushes the brittle, dead grass under their feet, and Finn feels goosebumps literally everywhere. He holds his breath and stares at his father's name on the headstone because if he's going to die right now, he wants that to be the last thing he sees. Maybe if it is, his dad will be waiting for him on the other side. He thinks that might be okay, if his dad was waiting.

"Your father," the person behind him says -- except Finn knows who it is; it's not just some random person, it's _Jarrah_ \-- "might have started by saying hello."

He's so scared. He's actually never been more scared than this, not even when he was in the locker room after football practice and he heard the gunshots going off and he looked at Sam and Sam looked at him and he _knew_. That was bad, but this is worse. And maybe that's selfish, but it's the truth. This is the most scared Finn has ever been. Ever.

But he looks at his father's name, and he takes a deep breath, and he stands up, and he turns around.

And there's Sayid Jarrah, in a long black coat, with his hands in his pockets, and he looks like a spy or maybe an assassin, and Finn is just some kid from Ohio who plays football and sings and is okay at the drums, and he doesn't even have a chair to defend himself with, and he is so dead, and he knows it.

But he takes another deep breath, and then another, and he says, "Hi."

 

*

 

He spends the drive from the hospital to the cemetery replaying the conversation in his mind, looking for connections, for clues, for things that he's missed.

In the end, he's left with Chris Hudson, and Carole.

_"You got a girl?" the boy asked him, blue eyes wide under his helmet. He was so corn-fed, so earnestly American, that Sayid half wondered if the boy were playing some kind of trick on him. He was like a character from a movie, brought to life. "Back home, you got anyone?"_

_But he was Sayid's only hope of learning anything about his captors, and so Sayid played along as well as he was able._

_"No," Sayid said. "Not right now, anyway."_

_The boy dug around in his pockets, finally pulling out a folded photograph. He held it up to the barbed wire so Sayid could see -- a young woman with tightly curled hair in a high ponytail, a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, denim trousers pulled high around her waist. "That's Carole," he said. "That's the girl I'm gonna marry when I get home."_

Of course, Sayid never met the woman in the photograph. All he knows about her is that she may have gone on to marry a good man.

And, if Carole Hudson-Hummel is to be believed, that man has since died.

By the time he reaches the cemetery, Sayid has already come to the conclusion that this is a wasted effort. Assuming Christopher Hudson is really buried here, what will he find? A tombstone. A grave. A coffin. No proof that the woman is who she says she says she is. No proof that she has any connection to Nadia. There is nothing here that can give him any answers.

But then, there is nothing for him at the hospital, either. Linus's associates are on watch for him now; they won't let him near the man. He could visit Sun, but the family protecting her has become suspicious, lately, and it would jeopardize her safe harbor if she's seen with him. And his apartment has nothing for him but bare walls.

The cemetery, at least, will be quiet and peaceful. A place to collect his thoughts.

Then he sees the boy, crouched in front of a grave in the northeast corner of the cemetery, and realizes that the answers he needs are closer than he may have imagined.

"I mean, I didn't even come up with the caroling thing," the boy says; Sayid glances past him, sees the small American flag planted in the earth near the headstone, fluttering in the wind. "That was all Rachel's idea. I don't have any ideas. There's nothing -- There's nothing for me. All I can do is play football and play the drums and sing sometimes. I'm not good... I'm not good at anything.

"I just wish I was good at something. I just... I just wish I could _do_ something."

_"Since when were you assigned to be my personal bodyguard?" Sayid asked the boy. They'd shuffled him between various soldiers for the first two days, but then there was Christopher Hudson, with his blue eyes and his all-American smile and his pictures of Carole hidden in the pocket of his desert camoflage._

_The boy just shrugged at him. "I guess they finally realized I'm not good at anything else," he said. "At least I finally get to be useful, right?"_

Sayid takes a step forward, and watches the boy stiffen. "Your father," he says, trying to sound gentle, "might have started by saying 'Hello.'"

There's a long pause; Sayid can't imagine what the boy might be thinking, what he might have heard about Sayid, what he might expect to come next.

Then the boy raises to his feet, turning and looking Sayid in the eye. He's tall, lean; he could almost be a threat, but there's something about him -- he hasn't learned to use his body as a weapon yet, how to really fight someone. Unformed, untrained. Unthreatening. But he's brave; he looks Sayid in the eye. He's obviously frightened, but he still stands his ground.

"Hi," the boy says, quietly.

It's a start.

 

*

 

"What's your name?" Jarrah asks, hands still in his pockets. He wouldn't have a gun in his pocket, would he? It could, like, get stuck on something and go off. Guns go in holsters, where it's safe.

Finn answers anyway; better safe than dead. "Finn Hudson," he says, and then thinks about it, and then adds, "Sir."

"My name is Sayid Jarrah." Then Jarrah smiles at him, and Finn reaches backwards for the cold support of his father's headstone. "But you knew that already."

"Yes, sir," Finn says again, very quietly. He wonders if Jarrah is going to make him talk before he kills him. He wonders he would even have to say. His mom and Burt and Mr. A have been really good about telling him what's going on so he doesn't get confused, but there's not much to tell. Only that Mr. A and Blaine are moving into Finn's house, and that when Miss Noor comes to Ohio she'll be staying in Mr. A's house for a little while so it still looks occupied, and that she and Finn's mom are going to try to talk to Mr. Jarrah --

But Finn is talking to him. Right now.

Maybe... Maybe he could do something. Or say something. Maybe he could --

"I'm not going to hurt you, Finn," Jarrah says, and steps forward a little. Finn shifts sideways, and lets Jarrah look at his father's headstone, read the name and the dates and the little note underneath. _Soldier. Husband. Father. Friend._ "Tell me," he says. "Why are you here, at the cemetary, in the middle of the day?"

"I guess I just..." Finn's fingertips scrape over the rough granite at the top of his father's headstone; it's weird, having Sayid Jarrah so close to him. He could like, kick him or something, but he doesn't, because he knows how it'll end. Because Jarrah is a soldier, and he's not. "I guess I was just having a bad week. And I... I wanted to talk to him."

"To your father." When Jarrah looks up at him, Finn nods, and he thinks he can maybe see Jarrah's face soften, a little bit. It's kind of not what Finn wants -- he wants to be a hero, a bad-ass, not just some sad kid who misses his father, but then maybe if who he is is something that can help them... Maybe it's worth it.

"He's a pretty good listener," Finn says, and tries to smile.

Jarrah goes back to studying the headstone, the dates on it. _1969-1995_. "What happened to him?" he asks, finally.

Finn swallows hard. The thing is, he kind of knew he would have to say this, somewhere along the line, but he doesn't want to. He's never done it before, never had to. It feels like it'll change things, having to say this. It feels like it'll make it true in a way it wasn't before, and he's not sure he's ready. But he doesn't have a choice, either, because if he lies now, they'll all be in trouble later. And not, like, hand in the cookie jar trouble, but pissed off Iraqi torturer trouble, and he can't do that. "When I was a kid," he says, and swallows again, "my mom just said he got hurt in the war and he didn't survive. At first I thought it meant he got shot and he died, because I didn't realize the war ended like four years before I was born because I wasn't really good at math when I was a baby, and because that was how it happened in movies so I figure that was what happened in real life. But then your friend Noor came to visit --"

Jarrah kind of jolts at that, and Finn waits for him to turn around or yell or at least say something, but he doesn't say anything at all, so after a couple seconds, Finn keeps going.

"-- and my mom told her that my dad _did_ come home, but he was... different. He'd changed. So I knew he didn't get shot and die right away, but he'd died later, which I probably would've figured out on my own at some point because we were starting to learn numbers in school. But then I didn't know how it had happened, and I didn't want to ask my mom because it made her cry and I didn't want her to cry. So then I just didn't know for a while. I mean, I kind of thought it might be like Gulf War Syndrome or Agent Orange or something, because we learned about that in school, and it sort of made sense, but not really. But then last year, I was going through some of my dad's old stuff because I needed a tie and I didn't have any and my mom didn't have any because she doesn't wear ties and my only friend who _does_ wear ties is Kurt and we weren't really friends then, just kind of but not really. And that was when I found the note."

_"What's that?" Kurt asked, and Finn didn't know what it was but he was pretty sure it was the end of the world. But he couldn't say that, so he folded the paper up and stuffed it in his pocket._

_"Must be from the dry-cleaners," he said, and grabbed his dad's old helmet out of a different box, and put it on Kurt's head to distract him, and it worked._

"And that was... That was when it started to make sense."

Jarrah doesn't ask him what made sense, which is good, because Finn's come as close as he can come to outright saying the words -- he doesn't want to go any further. But neither does Jarrah, because he takes a deep breath, and looks Finn in the eye, and says, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

And Finn says, "It was for you. The note, I mean. It was for you."

And Jarrah just stares at him.

"I knew I shouldn't have read it," Finn adds. "But I just -- because like I said, your friend Noor came to visit us when I was a kid, and she wanted my mom to help find you, and she said my dad _knew_ you, and I wondered. Who you were. And if you'd know... If you'd understand what happened to him, if you could help explain... So when I found the note, I read it. And maybe I shouldn't have, but I didn't think I'd ever, you know, get the chance to give it to you. I mean, Mr. Anderson was still in Indiana back then. He didn't start at McKinley until January. And I... There was this thing, with this girl, and I just... I needed to know _why_. Why my dad would just leave me and my mom the way he did. Why he couldn't be my father like he was supposed to."

Jarrah clears his throat. "And do you know, now?" he asks, and Finn can't tell if he's mad or sad or surprised or just really confused. "Do you know why?"

"Kind of," Finn says. "I think so."

Then he does what is either the best or the worst thing he could do in the situation -- he's not sure which, but it feels right, so he goes for it. "It's in my locker," he says. "The note, I mean. It's in my locker, at school. If you wanted to read it, I could... We could go get it. If you wanted to."

 

*

 

It's safe to say that when Sayid first stepped foot in Lima Memorial Hospital at 8:15 this morning, he never expected to be at McKinley High School by one in the afternoon.

Of course, he doubts Finn Hudson expected to be the one to bring him here, which would almost be a comfort if it weren't for the myriad of things that could go wrong. After all, the school was the setting for the last attack on Blaine Linus, and it's obvious security has improved since then. First, the metal detectors, then the escort to the principal's office so Sayid could check in and recieve his visitor's badge. Finn had, with some confidence, explained that Sayid was a friend of his father's, a translator who'd helped rescue a stranded airman during the war, and it was enough to get them past the disinterested secretary handling nametags (and make Sayid wonder just how Finn knew what he knew). But Sayid's not entirely sure what Finn will do if he's met with questioning from someone who actually appears to be awake.

Fortunately, Finn at least appears to be aware of the problem.

"Okay," he says, leading them quickly down the hall. "So fifth period just started, which means we've got about forty minutes before I have to be at glee club, which should be plenty of time."

Sayid glances up at the round plastic domes installed at regular intervals in the ceiling; he wonders, idly, which are real cameras, which are fake. It's entirely possible that there will be no record of his presence here when he leaves. It's also possible that every step he takes will be on tape. Better he not take any chances.

"And if it's not, you can hide out in the library until I'm done, 'cause no one ever goes in there." Finn stops in front of one of the lockers, starts spinning the dial. "Except the librarians, I guess. But if they ask you what you're doing there, you can just tell them --"

"-- that I'm your father's friend from Iraq, and that my wife and I are thinking of moving to the area," Sayid finishes. "And that I'm here to look at the schools."

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye -- a girl in a cheerleader's uniform standing at the end of the bank of lockers, her dark hair in a high ponytail. She glances in his direction, then turns and hurries away, ponytail swinging behind her. Perhaps she's merely a cheerleader, late for class.

Perhaps not.

"Right, yeah, exactly." The locker swings open, and Finn starts rummaging through it. "It should be... somewhere in the back..."

Sayid leaves Finn to his search, and turns to examine his surroundings.

It's been a long time since Sayid has been in any sort of school, of course, and he never attended any place quite like this, with its rows of lockers and handpainted GO TITANS signs taped to the cinderblock. The hallway is quiet enough, but Sayid can hear doors slamming shut in the distance, a low murmuring of voices almost reminiscent of the voices he heard sometimes, in the jungle, right before --

"Si, Senora!" several voices cry out, and Sayid barely manages to hide his flinch.

Not that it matters, because Finn Hudson is still wholly engrossed in the contents of his locker. "Maybe I put it in my --" He pulls out a large, hardbacked book with an American flag on the cover, turns it upside-down and shakes it, and an envelope falls out, tumbling to the floor. "Right, because American History, and my dad was a part of --"

Finn bends down to pick up the envelope, and that's when Sayid notices the blonde woman approaching from the other end of the hallway. Behind her, the dark-haired cheerleader stands for a moment, watching, then she vanishes around the corner and is gone. The blonde, however, keeps coming straight for him.

Sayid has no weapons, and there are cameras everywhere, but that's not what stops him from seizing Finn Hudson and using him as a hostage to barter safe passage out of the school. What stops him is the voice of Carole Hudson.

_Maybe Nadia's wrong about you._

"Finn," he says, quietly, and the boy looks up at him, then turns slowly around to see the blonde woman.

"Oh!" Finn straightens quickly, his lanky body nearly hiding Sayid from view, and hides the envelope behind his back. "Uh. Hey, Miss Holliday. Shouldn't you -- shouldn't you be in class right now?"

"Shouldn't _you_ be in class?" the woman retorts. She takes a step to the side, as if to get around Finn, to get closer to Sayid, but the boy blocks her. "I thought you left to go to the hospital. To check in on Kurt and Blaine."

Is it possible that the boy was at the hospital, that he heard Sayid's conversation with Carole? It seems unlikely. More probable that Finn simply didn't want anyone to know where he was going, that he wanted privacy to speak to his father. In retrospect, Sayid isn't sure he should have interrupted him. Perhaps he ought to have left better off alone.

"I... um... I mean, I did do that, and they were fine, but Mr. Anderson was still in surgery and there wasn't much for me to do so then I left, so I could come back here for Glee club, and -- Oh, and also my dad's friend is here, you know -- Um, he was a translator, during the war, and then now he's here, because of schools, and I --"

"I _gave_ Ben the file on Sayid Jarrah," the woman says. "I mean, most of it -- I'm sure he's added things since then, but my point is, I know who he is. What I don't know is why he's here. I was hoping maybe you could help me out with that."

Finn swallows audibly; Sayid can feel his heart rate pick up. It's not too late to grab the boy; he doesn't have to have a weapon, he could pretend --

"Are... Are you gonna tell my mom?" Finn asks, quietly, and Sayid's hands fall to his sides. Because perhaps the boy didn't intend to be seen at the cemetery, but he was. Seen and heard, and Sayid is not a very sentimental person, but he can't harm a child. Not unless there's no other way, and he's not sure they're at that place just yet.

The woman folds her arms. "I haven't made up my mind yet," she says. Then she sighs, and her posture relaxes. "Ben is gonna kill me for this," she murmurs, before fixing her eyes on Sayid. "All right. Whatever we're doing, we're not doing it here. Follow me."

She turns, but Finn doesn't move to follow her, so Sayid doesn't either. "Miss Holliday --" he says.

"Follow me, or I call your mom as soon as I get to the office," the woman replies. "Your call, Finn."

Finn looks over at Sayid, eyes wide in obvious alarm.

"I think Miss Holliday might have a point," Sayid says. "This hallway is a bit... public. Perhaps we'd better go with her."

He falls into line behind the woman; there's a pause, and then the sound of a locker slamming shut, and Finn hurries after them.

 

*

 

_I'm not as dumb as I look._

That was the part that had made Finn smile, when he read his father's note. Sayid smiles, too, but it fades away pretty fast. But then, what comes next isn't as funny.

_I knew what they meant when they said you were going to get your C.O. to talk, one way or another. And I knew you wouldn't do it just for Inman. Whatever video he had to show you, whatever he was going to do to make you angry, I knew it wouldn't be enough. You had to want to help us. That was my job, to give you someone to care for. Someone you would want to help._

_I hated every single second of it. Not because of you -- you were a good guy, and I'm sure you still are. Better than me, anyway. But you were a good man, and to do what you had to do, to hurt him like they wanted you to, that was gonna take some of your goodness away. And I hated that. I hated that I was going to do that to you._

_But I did it anyway. We had a soldier missing and time was running out and everyone said that it was for the greater good, and I told myself that like it would make it okay, but it didn't._

_It wasn't okay. It still isn't. It's never going to be, and every day, I think about that. I look at my wife, and I think about her, and I think about the baby we're going to have and the child I'm going to have to raise, and I just know I can't do it. A good man could. You could._

_But I can't._

Finn read those words over and over for about a week straight, and wondered if he could be a good man. If he could raise a baby.

He didn't have to, in the end, but part of him still wonders.

"You okay?" Miss Holliday asks.

Finn can't answer; his throat is too tight.

Miss Holliday just sighs and hands him a box of tissues. "God I hope you know what you're doing," she says, softly.

"Yeah," Finn says, and blows his nose. "Yeah, me too."

They stand together, shoulder-to-shoulder, for what feels like forever. Finally, Sayid lowers the note and just stares at the cinderblock walls of Mr. Anderson's office.

"Does your mother know about this?" he asks, very quietly.

Finn shakes his head, but of course, Sayid's not looking at him. "I don't think so," Finn says. "It was just in a box with a lot of stuff, like junk mail and bills and things like that. I think she... I think she thought she could go back and take care of everything he left behind, and then she just... couldn't. So she put it in the attic and she left it there. I don't think she read it, though. I think if she had... I think if she had, things would've been different."

Sayid looks at him at that, studies him for a long time. Then he nods, like he understands. Which, maybe he does, maybe he doesn't, but at least Finn doesn't have to explain, which is good. Because he can't, and he doesn't want to try.

"If you wanted me to help you," Sayid says, and his voice is still quiet, still almost gentle, but Finn's not totally fooled. He knows that somewhere, inside, Sayid is pissed. He knows they could be in trouble. "Why would you show me this note? Why would you --"

"Because my dad shouldn't have lied." Finn's voice cracks weirdly on the last word, and Miss Holliday rests a hand on his shoulder. "Even if he thought it would be worth it, in the end. He shouldn't have lied to you. And if I knew what he'd done, and if I... If I knew and if I didn't say anything, I would be lying too. And I don't want to do what he did. So I'm telling you the truth. And if that means you don't help us, then you don't. But you should. Because I don't know a lot about, like, the Hostile guys that you're working for right now, but I doubt they'd be this honest with you. But we will."

The bell rings; Sayid startles, but Finn doesn't. He's not sure why. Maybe he's just too tired.

Honesty kind of takes a lot out of you, actually.

"Just think about it, okay?" he says. "I gotta get to class."

He can feel Sayid staring at him as he walks toward the door, but he doesn't look back.

 

*

 

The blonde woman, Miss Holliday, follows Finn out into the hallway, leaving Sayid alone. He contemplates the note for a moment or two, then carefully folds it and puts it in his pocket, saving it for later.

_"I'm sorry."_

_Sayid doesn't look up. There is still blood on his hands; his ears are still ringing from his commanding officer's screams. It hadn't been easy to provoke that kind of a response from him. For a long time, the officer had been stoic, silent. As a soldier is meant to be._

_But he had screamed, in the end. He had screamed and he had wept and he had told Sayid everything he needed to hear. It just took a little time, a little effort. That was all._

_"We shouldn't have... We shouldn't have made you do that. We could have found someone else, we could have --"_

_Sayid wanted to tell Christopher that it was all right, that it had all been for the greater good. He wanted to tell him that because he wanted to believe it._

_But he didn't._

_So he said nothing._

Sayid raises his head to survey his surroundings. There's one window in the room, a small one -- it looks out at a brick wall. A folding table wedged underneath holds a microwave, a small refrigerator, a few mugs and saucers, a box of tea, a container of honey. Not far away is a large wooden desk, covered in framed photographs. Sayid picks up the nearest one, examines it. It's a picture of Benjamin Linus with a young boy, presumably his son. Linus is thin, pale, tired-looking, but he's smiling broadly, his arms wrapped around the boy, their cheeks pressed together. The boy isn't smiling at all -- his eyes are on the camera, wary, suspicious.

"I keep thinking I should ask him the story behind that one," Miss Holliday says, re-entering the room. "But. Ben's not much of a talker, really. I think he's getting better. Maybe. I don't know, it's hard to say with him." She holds her hand out; after a moment's bemusement, Sayid sets the photograph down, and takes her hand. There's a strength to her, more than he would have suspected. "Holly Holliday. I'm subbing for Ben while he's on medical leave." Sayid must look a little blank at that, because Holly is quick to go on. "As a teacher, I mean. I'm covering his classes for him. Well, all except AP Calculus; we got a guy from the university for that. It's a little beyond my scope. Although frankly, half the time I feel like ninety percent of what Ben does for these kids is beyond my scope; mostly, I do foreign languages, a little history, maybe some sex ed here and there. I mean, I'm decent with math, but. Had some bad experiences, you know how it is. Kids don't usually take to it well, so they're hard on their regular teachers, and then you take those teachers away and throw a sub in -- like being thrown to the wolves, you know?"

"Not really," Sayid says.

Miss Holliday just laughs. Then she turns towards her desk (Ben's desk), settles herself in the chair behind it. She looks up at Sayid, expectantly; it takes Sayid a moment to figure out just what it is she's looking for, but when he does, he finds a chair and settles himself across the desk from her. "Okay," Miss Holliday says. "So I have a question for you. Finn told me that he met you in the cemetery, at his father's grave. It's possible you would have known where it was on your own, or at least you could have found out, but since you're not here for the Hudsons and probably didn't even know they were from Ohio in the first place, I really don't see why you would've bothered with it. So who told you where it was?"

"A woman named Carole," Sayid says; Miss Holliday doesn't look particularly surprised, although she does look... saddened, he supposes is the term. "I met her at the hospital. I believe she was trying to get rid of me."

"Can you blame her?" Miss Holliday asks. "I mean, I'm sure you were at the hospital for some completely benevolent reason completely unrelated to your current mission to kidnap Ben Linus and his son and take them back to Brainwashing Island -- probably there as part of some canine therapy program, or maybe reading stories to the kids in the burn ward -- but, you know, timing. Yours might've looked a little suspicious."

"And Carole Hudson sending me to the one place where her son happened to be -- that doesn't seem suspicious to you at all?" Sayid asks.

"I'm tempted to say that our child doesn't use children like that," Miss Holliday says, still with that certain sadness to her expression, "but I guess it's more accurate to say that our side _tries_ not to use children and then they decide that they're going to help us whether we want them to or not and then run around behind our backs doing completely stupid and dangerous things because they don't realize that they're not bulletproof and --"

She takes a breath.

"Sorry," she says, and stands up from behind the desk again, walking around to the table underneath the window. "God. Just... I mean, Ben's been gone a day and I'm already... I need tea. You want some tea?"

He doesn't want tea, really; what he'd like is a chance to regain his lost equilibrium, but he's not sure that's going to happen. The tea, at least, will let him stall for time. "Please," he says.

"My point is that you shouldn't mistake coincidence for conspiracy, Sayid." Miss Holliday pulls a pitcher of water from the little refrigerator, fills two mugs with it, places them in the microwave. "I mean, I know your background -- I know what happened to you in France, and I know why you were in Australia, and I know that you've got your reasons to be suspicious of... pretty much everyone. But sometimes things just happen. I'm pretty sure this is one of those things." The microwave beeps, and she opens it, reaching in for the mugs. "Ow, ow, ow, _hot_..." Each mug is placed on a saucer, with a bag of tea alongside -- she balances both carefully on her way back to the desk, along with a stack of napkins and the plastic container of honey. "Anyway. I mean, no offense, but you're pretty much the last guy anyone wants to see talking to their kids, aren't you? I almost peed myself when I saw you with Finn, and he and I aren't even related." She shrugs, sets Sayid's tea down in front of him, sits down on the other side of the desk with her own cup. "What that would do to his mother, to know that you were with him and she wasn't there to protect him -- I don't know what that would do to her, but I doubt it would be good."

Sayid watches her for a moment, the way she fidgets with the string on her bag of tea, pulling it to make the bag bob up and down in the water. "So I take it you're not going to tell Finn's mother that he left the school today," he says. "Are you?"

Miss Holliday shakes her head. "I'm not," she says. "He is. Which, honestly... I don't know what's going to happen, then. I'm not..." She looks up at Sayid. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I like kids. I wouldn't work here if I didn't. But I'm not... I don't understand these things. Ben would. Because Ben's a dad, and Ben is... He's Ben. He gets these things. Or he would get them. If he weren't heavily sedated. Which he is. So. It's kind of down to me, right now."

She doesn't look particularly pleased by that. What was it she'd said, earlier? _Ninety percent of what Ben does for these kids is beyond my scope._ He'd thought, perhaps, that she was a teacher who'd stumbled into something dangerous. But perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she's something dangerous that stumbled into teaching.

He decides to ask.

"You told Finn that you gave Ben a file. On me." A small smile flickers on Miss Holliday's face, then fades away. "You knew that we were coming to find him. You knew before he did."

"Yeah." The smile returns, lasts a little longer this time. "Yeah, I did."

Sayid raises an eyebrow at her. "How?"

Miss Holliday opens a drawer, pulls out a photograph, slides it over to Sayid. It's a man and a woman standing together in front of the ocean, boats behind them. They're wrapped up in each other; smiling, content. "Desmond David Hume," she says, tapping the photograph. "He had this wild idea that he was going to do this sort of adventure race, sailing around the world. The woman in the picture, Penny -- she begged him not to go, but he said he had to. That it was the only way he could win her father's respect, and he couldn't marry her until he'd done it. Until he'd _won_. Kind of sounds like bullshit to me, but some guys are like that, you know. They get this weird... pride thing in their heads, can't let it go. So he left. Never came home.

"When you talked to Carole at the hospital, she mentioned Nadia, didn't she? That's why you listened to her; that's why you left the hospital and went to the cemetary. Because she told you that Nadia had looked for you after you left Iraq. That she came all the way to Ohio trying to track down the only lead she had, Christopher Hudson. And that led her to Carole."

Sayid forces himself to meet her eyes. "Yes," he says, softly.

"She wasn't lying." Miss Holliday folds her hands on the table; she doesn't once break eye contact with Sayid. "Nadia did go to her. Because she wanted to find you. Because she loved you. Far as I can tell, she still does.

"And Penny still loves Desmond, stupid pride things and all. Except she's got a lot more resources than Nadia does. More information, more access, more money... And somewhere along the line, she figured it out. Desmond was on the Island."

_He's been at the Flame for a little over a week when he sees the man for the first time, on the monitor feed from the Swan. The man's hair is long, but he's clean-shaven, clad in a DHARMA Inititative jumpsuit like the one Mikhail wears, typing numbers into an old computer. It only takes him a moment or two, and then he pushes his chair back, stands up, and walks away again, out of view of the cameras._

_Sayid turns, looking over his shoulder at Mikhail. "Who was that man?" he asks. "Is he one of you?"_

_Mikhail just shrugs. "He works for the DHARMA initiative," he explains. The cat jumps into his lap; he scratches behind her ears, and she purrs. "The only one of them left on the Island. But he doesn't bother us, so we don't bother him. It works better that way. Besides, his work is important. He's saving the world."_

_"How?" Sayid asks. It doesn't seem as though the man had done much of anything. Merely typing a string of numbers into a computer, then walking away._

_Another shrug. "A story for another time, perhaps. For now, we have work. Change the feed to the Question Mark -- I want to see if your friend John Locke is still there."_

"Of course, Penny couldn't just break out the family yacht and go get him back. The Island's not easy to find. You need someone who knows the way, and they're not easy to come by, especially not for her. But the people that sent _you_ here, Sayid? They know the way. And if you called for them right now, and said you had Ben Linus? They'd come running."

Sayid looks at her for a moment longer, and then he drops his gaze, contemplates the mug of hot water still cooling in front of him, the bag of tea still in its little paper envelope. He organizes his thoughts, and then he looks back up at Miss Holliday. "And so she sent you here," he says. "To force the Others to accept you as Benjamin Linus's substitute, and go to the Island in his place, and bring back Desmond Hume."

Miss Holliday smiles at him. "That's right," she says. "That's exactly right."

"But what if you can't take his place?"

Her smile falters.

Sayid presses on. "What if he _has_ to go back to the Island? What if nobody -- not you, nor I, nor anyone else -- can go back without him? What do you do then? Do you bring him with you when you go, hope that perhaps you'll be able to take him back at the end? Or do you leave Desmond there, and tell your friend Penny that he's gone?"

The smile is gone now. Miss Holliday takes a deep breath and lifts her chin defiantly. "I made a promise," she says. "And I am not going to break that promise. For anyone."

The vehemence in her tone takes Sayid back more than a little. At the same time, it's reassuring. "I, too, have made a promise," he says. "Perhaps you and I could find some common ground, with our promises."

And just like that, she smiles again, relaxing. "Maybe," she says. "Maybe we could."

 

*

 

He drifts a little, the anesthesia from the surgery and the painkillers that soften (but can't kill) the pain in his lower back putting him into a sort of fog. There are moments of clarity -- Blaine walking alongside as he's wheeled to the elevators, Blaine's hands buttoning his pajama shirt for him (no longer chubby and small but broad and strong, an adult's hands, and Ben had had to cover his son's hands with his own for a moment, eyes welling with tears he couldn't find the words to explain but Blaine knew, he has always known). Blaine kissing his forehead once he was settled into bed. And then the fog settles in again, and he drifts, tethered only by the needle still in his arm and the constant throbbing in his back, glowing coals only awaiting an opportunity to ignite...

The bed shifts.

Ben opens his eyes, expecting to see his son perched on the edge of the mattress, watching over him with a face too old for his years. Instead, he sees Holly Holliday looking down on him. Strands of her blonde hair are coming loose from her ponytail, and she looks exhausted, worried, strained. She looks beautiful, exquisitely so, and Ben realizes he should be terrified of falling, but he's fairly certain it's already too late. The ground is already in front of him, and there's nothing to do but go limp and hope the landing isn't too terrible.

He smiles at her, and she smiles back, and he realizes that he has no reason to believe that the smile on her face is one she reserves just for him, but it's nice to pretend for a moment, so he does.

"Hello, Holly."

"Hey there, hot stuff." Her fingertips touch his face, just for a moment; a touch so gentle he nearly shudders with it, and then her hand pulls away, settles on his shoulder. "Nice pajamas."

"Heard you might be coming," he says, a little slurred but not too bad. At least he's speaking in clear sentences; that's something. "Thought I should dress up for it."

Her hand pulls away again, comes to rest on the mattress near his. It's almost like she doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what level of touch is appropriate for the situation, and although Ben himself isn't exactly certain, he's also heavily medicated. He's so medicated, in fact, that when his hands reach out for hers, it's like they almost aren't even his. But he does feel more secure when her hand is clasped in his, dry and warm.

He half expects her to pull away, but she doesn't; her fingers curl around his like a lifeline.

They really are in trouble, aren't they?

Holly's other hand comes up, wraps around his, all those fingers twined together. She looks as though she's about to say something, for a moment, but then she stops, sighs, looks away.

"Bad day?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, but she's smiling when she turns her face to his. It's a deliberate smile, and ordinarily he wouldn't stand for being patronized, but he's drugged and she's lovely and they're in trouble, so he allows it. "Yeah, it kind of was."

"I'm sorry," he says. "I wish I wasn't so useless right now. I would help you, if I could."

This smile isn't a deliberate one; it's sweet and sad and unforced. She has so many smiles. He could catalog them someday, perhaps. "It's okay," she says. "We'll talk about it later. When you're not stoned."

He smiles back at her; strange to feel his smile so much brighter than hers.

"Anyway," Holly says, and squeezes her hands around his. Warm pressure, comfort, a far better tether than a needle in his arm and a scalpel's slice down his back. "This is actually helping a lot, so you're fine."

"Well." Ben keeps smiling at her. "Always happy to be of service."

It isn't long before he starts drifting again, safely anchored with her hands wrapped around his.

"I meant what I told him," she says, softly, voice weaving in and out of his dreams. "I'm not letting you go back there. I don't care what happens. I'm not letting you go."

There are words, and he means to answer her with them, but they float away, and so does he.

The last thing he remembers is her lips pressed to his cheek.


	11. Collisions, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt spends Christmas in a hospital. Rachel is a spy. Ben plays Santa Claus. And something has begun.

_December 17th_

 

 

"It's ready," Brittany announces, her voice as bright and cheerful as ever, and Artie swallows hard, feeling a little like he's going to be sick.

He wants to ask her what's ready, but he already knows. He wishes he didn't, but he does. He knows.

"Are you sure?" he asks, instead. "Brittany, we don't want --"

"Tonight," Brittany says. "We start tonight. Meet at my house."

Before Artie can even begin to think of an excuse to not show up, to not let her do this, she's already hung up the phone.

 

 

_December 24th_

 

 

It snows on Christmas Eve.

There's a little garden Carole showed Kurt when it was _his_ dad in the hospital, not very big or very fancy, but a little patch of outside in the middle of the concrete world of the hospital, easy enough to get to if you know the way, but hard enough to find that there's never more than one or two people there. He used to go, sometimes, just to be away from the noise, the televisions in every room, the codes being called out over the intercoms, the beeping and the rattle of wheels and the constant commotion that whirled around his still father in the bed, the only point in the room that was absolutely, completely motionless.

Blaine's father is not motionless. He can sit up a little, if the bed is lifted; he can move his head and use his arms freely, and when the physical therapy guy comes in, he can even get out of bed and go up and down the hall a few times with his walker. He can move; he's just not allowed to, most of the time. Kurt doesn't know what that's like, but he can imagine how it must feel. To be trapped that way. It's hard on him.

But it's hard on Blaine, too.

So they sneak Mr. Anderson out of his room, down to the elevator, down to the hall by radiology, out the little door right next to the staircase, and into the garden, and let him sit in his chair in the snow for a long time, snowflakes melting on the blanket on his lap and the blue beanie pulled carefully down over his ears.

And when Mr. Anderson gets tired of sitting straight up like that, and the incisions start to itch again, and his nurse is due to check on him any minute anyway, Kurt has Miss Holliday wheel Mr. Anderson back upstairs, and he and Blaine stay outside a little longer, in the garden, in the snow.

Blaine rests his cane against the wall and leans back against Kurt's chest to steady himself, and Kurt wraps both arms around Blaine's waist to help hold him up. He rests his chin on Blaine's shoulder, too, purely for the comfort of it, and Blaine sighs and sags in Kurt's arms.

"It's funny," he says, softly. "I remember the first time I saw snow. It was when we moved to New Paltz. It was February, and there wasn't very much, but... It had never really occurred to me, but Dad grew up on the Island too, almost all his life. So he'd never seen snow either." Kurt closes his eyes; he can feel Blaine's smile stretching his face, the way they're pressed together cheek to cheek. "We made a snowman. It was tiny, and there was a lot of like, dirt and grass and leaves in it, but... He was so proud of that snowman. The first one he'd ever made."

Kurt kisses him on the cheek and hugs him close, partially because he can't think of anything to say, but mostly because words seem honestly irrelevant right now.

"I don't --" Blaine sighs heavily, and squeezes Kurt's hands. "I don't think a lot about... about this being over. About being able to just go wherever, whenever I want to, without having to look over my shoulder or worry or -- But I think, if we -- _when_ we get out of this. I want to be somewhere it snows in the winter. Maybe not Ohio, although it'd be nice to stay in the same state for the rest of high school at least, but. Wherever I wind up, that's what I want. Snow in the wintertime."

"So much for stealing you away to Cancun," Kurt sighs, and then he smiles, and kisses Blaine again. "I always wanted to live in New York City, when I got older. There probably wouldn't be a lot of places to build a snowman, but we could go skating together at Rockefeller Center, and see the tree all lit up. If you wanted to."

Blaine's quiet in Kurt's arms for a while, and then he says, "Maybe. I think... I think I'd like that."

"Then we'll get you there," Kurt says. "Okay?"

"Okay," Blaine says, and Kurt thinks maybe, just maybe, Blaine might actually be starting to believe him.

 

 

_December 21st_

 

 

It's not spying, not really.

It's just... She's worried about Finn. She has been, really, ever since that day that he and Santana were in the astronomy room together and she thought they were hooking up but then it turned out they were talking about Blaine and at first she was so busy feeling guilty about not worrrying about Blaine that she didn't think to worry about Finn as well. But then it sort of hit her that she'd been worried about Finn all along, because obviously she wouldn't think he was cheating on her unless she actually thought there was something wrong with him because he'd never cheat otherwise. And once she realized that she knew that there was something wrong with him, then she realized that there was really something wrong with him. But, like, something really wrong.

And that was when she realized that she didn't know what to do.

She tried hinting about it a couple of times, but every time she brought it up he'd just smile bravely at her like nothing was wrong. Or he'd try to smile bravely -- mostly he just looked sort of constipated and like he had a cramp. But she knew what he was going for. And it hurt that he wasn't opening up, but she figured she shouldn't try to force him. So then she tried not talking at all, in the hopes the silence would provoke some sort of response, but he'd just stare off into space. Then Rachel tried distracting him with makeouts, thinking that maybe some post-coital cuddling would prompt him to open up. Or not post-coital _exactly_ because after last year's Quinn pregnancy debacle Rachel had found herself less interested in her budding teenage sexuality, but she did know enough about safe sex practices to realize that they were perfectly fine to touch above clothing, and knowing Finn, that ought to have been more than enough. But for the first time in a very long time, Finn actually seemed mostly uninterested in her breasts.

Which forced Rachel to reconsider the idea that Finn and Santana were sleeping together.

Which is not, incidentally, why she's hiding in the music library while Finn and Santana argue in the choir room.

Because she gave up on that idea sometime last week when she realized that if Santana and Finn were sleeping together, Santana would have told someone by now, and Rachel's too familiar with the McKinley High rumor mill to believe that it would have stayed hidden for more than thirty seconds past that point. Which left her back at square one, knowing that something was wrong with Finn and not knowing what it was, which is when she started following him. Not to spy on him, just to... To observe.

She didn't observe much for the first few days, but today...

She's observed a lot today, and none of it makes any sense unless Finn is somehow in league with terrorists and Holly Holliday works for the CIA, and there's absolutely no way that's possible.

Not that what Santana and Finn are talking about makes that much more sense, really.

"So you're saying that Ahab the Arab and his buddies are coming after Tiny Tim because he's _psychic_?"

"His name's Sayid," Finn sighs, for like the fiftieth time, and Rachel's still trying to figure out why her boyfriend is on a first-name basis with an Iraqi torturer who may or may not also be a terrorist. "And... Yeah, I guess. I guess that's what I'm saying. So... Go ahead and make fun of me now. It's okay. I really, really don't care anymore."

For a long, long time, Santana doesn't say anything at all.

And then she says, "Okay."

Another long silence.

"Wait," Finn says. "You... You're not telling me that it's impossible or that I'm stupid or --"

"Look," Santana says, with a sigh. "Two hours ago, you came strolling into the school with a Iraqi torturer who died in a plane crash, except he didn't die because the plane crashed on the same magic Island that Blaine and his dad come from, and the creepy evil people who live on the Island kidnapped our good friend the Iraqi torturer and brainwashed him or threatened his girlfriend or something, and sent him after Blaine and Mr. A. Except by some crazy random happenstance, the evil Island people managed to find the one Iraqi torturer on the planet who was besties with your dad, and also one time his ex-girlfriend had coffee with your mom or something, so you managed to talk him out of blowing up the school with the help of a substitute teacher who thinks that taking students to Taco Bell is the same thing as having a lesson plan." She pauses for a deep breath. "I mean, I'm just saying. Impossible's kind of a relative concept at this point, don't you think?"

"I..." Rachel can almost see the way Finn's eyebrows have drawn together as he tries to parse the phrase _relative concept_. "I guess so?"

"I'm just saying. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing that's happened at this school." Another sigh. "Besides, I... I mean, I don't know. I think some people do have... abilities, you know? They can see things. Things other people can't. If Preppy -- if _Blaine_ really can see the future, at least that would explain why the creepy Island people are so committed to getting their hands on him. I think it honestly makes sense. I really do."

"Really?" Finn asks.

"Really."

They're quiet together for a few minutes -- Rachel would almost think that they'd gone if she didn't know that Finn is physically incapable of moving with any sort of stealth. Instead, she imagines them sitting together, thinking. Not holding hands or anything; Santana wouldn't let them get that close. But leaning near to each other, perhaps enough to brush shoulders. It's a strangely comforting image.

"So," Santana says, finally. "This psychic future dream that Preppy had. I don't suppose he said anything, like, 'Oh no, Coach Sue's got a gun!' or 'It was the Korean chick all along!' or 'CVS stopped carrying my hair gel!' or... Something that would let us know just what he saw that was so scary? Maybe?"

This time, the quiet isn't comforting at all.

Finally, Finn says, "He said his dad was gone," his voice strangely choked. "He said... He said his dad was gone, and that Kurt was gone, and that... That Kurt had been gone for a long time. And then he just... Then he just said he was sorry, like, over and over again."

"You said -- You said that the first time Blaine did... That he _did_ things, it was when they took his dad from him. If he were to lose his dad again, and Kurt too..."

"It might make him do stuff again, yeah," Finn says. "But... I don't think it's the same, Santana. I mean, yeah, Blaine did stuff when his dad was gone the first time, but I don't think... I think what he saw, in his dream, what he _did_ \-- I think it was bad. I think it was really, really bad." He pauses. "Or it will be bad. Or something."

"So what do we do?" Santana asks, and for the first time since Rachel's known her, Santana sounds scared.

That, more than anything, scares her.

"I don't know," Finn says, softly. "I really don't know."

And that's scary too.

 

 

_December 24th (cont'd)_

 

 

He's getting very tired of needing to be _pushed_ places, of not even needing it but having people simply assume, take the handlebars of his wheelchair and take him where they want him to go without so much as asking first. And yes, granted, he knows exactly where Holly is taking him and why, because he asked her to set up this meeting, because it needs to be done. But.

"Penny for 'em?" Holly asks, still wheeling him steadily along.

"I really don't know how Artie Abrams does it," Ben says, and folds his hands in his lap to keep from grabbing at the wheels to stop her. "I haven't had this chair for two days and I'm already --"

"He did give you that cushion," Holly says, dryly; there's a pause, and then she adds, "You'll be out of it soon enough. _If_ you behave yourself and do what your doctors tell you."

"And I'm sure meeting an Iraqi torturer in the hospital parking garage is very beneficial to my spine," Ben agrees. His voice is level; he does not snap at Holly; he does not tell her that he doesn't need to be reminded to follow his doctor's orders, that he isn't a child -- "Why are we doing this, Holly?" he asks, instead. "If Carole's right; if Ms. Jaseem is not his priority, then why --"

"Because I think Finn had a point when he talked about honesty," Holly says. "And, frankly, because I feel like seeing Nadia after all this time will probably shake Sayid's priorities a little bit, whether or not he's going to admit it. And because someone needs to get her from the airport, and if we send him, then we don't have to worry about him coming after you."

"Unless he grabs me while I'm in the parking lot in front of him," Ben murmurs, and regrets it immediately when he sees Holly's knuckles tighten around the handles of his chair.

"Let him try it," Holly says softly, her voice lower than he's heard it, darker.

They really are in trouble, aren't they?

"I suppose that would be pretty stupid of him," Ben adds, after a few moments. "He doesn't strike me as the type to make that obvious of a mistake."

Holly hums softly under her breath. "Flattery, Ben," she says, "will get you everywhere."

They're quiet for a while, nothing but the rattling of his spokes as Holly pushes him along down the hallway.

"And the other problem?" Ben asks. Poor Rachel Berry, with her knee socks and her cardigan sweaters and her unrelenting curiosity. He should have known she wouldn't give up so easily. Honestly, the number of mistakes he's made lately, it's a miracle they aren't already back on the Island, and Rachel and everyone else right along with them.

"I can hear you guilting yourself from here, you know," Holly says. "Rachel's fine. Friend of mine's offered to keep an eye on her, keep her out of trouble."

Ben raises an eyebrow, glances back over his shoulder at her. "This wouldn't be the same friend who's keeping an eye on Walt for us, would it?"

Holly smiles down at him. "You have your secret associates," she says. "I have mine."

"I think you stopped being a secret the day I went into the hospital," Ben notes. Of course, Wes isn't a secret either, not really. But if it makes Holly feel better to think she's got something over on Ben, he'll allow it. "But."

They finally emerge from the long radiology corridor, making their way through a sliding door to the lobby. The guard on duty barely glances at them as they wheel past.

"You're sure Carole's okay with this?" Holly asks, once the doors are shut behind them. "She put a lot of effort into getting Nadia here; I feel kind of bad about stealing her thunder."

There had been tears in Carole's eyes when she handed over Ms. Jaseem's itinerary, but Ben was fairly certain they had nothing to do with a sense of wasted effort. Or at least, not where it came to Ms. Jaseem. "Her idea, actually," he says. "I'm sure Burt will be thrilled. He wasn't exactly happy with the idea of her putting herself in danger. Not, of course, that this means she's out of it just yet."

"Hmm."

Then a dark figure emerges from the shadows at the far end of the parking garage, and Ben settles his shoulders back, tries to look as relaxed as possible. "Well," he says, to Holly. "Time to play Santa Claus."

 

 

 

_December 21st (continued)_

 

 

Lopez has barely been gone ten minutes before someone else is knocking on the door. Dave's not really surprised; he's still not entirely sure what he thought he was doing down in that room, with the gun in his hand, and Blaine Anderson standing tiny and brave and trembling in front of Santana and Kurt like he was actually big enough to stop a bullet (except, in the end, he was, so), but he knew he was about to blow something up. The question, of course, is what.

He swings the door open and finds Rachel Berry standing there in front of him, hands primly folded in front of her.

In other words, he's blowing up the glee club.

Well, it's something, anyway.

He holds the door open and steps aside, and after a few moments, Berry steps into the living room, looking around her curiously, like she's shocked he lives in an actual house. Or maybe, since she's the one with two gay dads who are both interior designers or whatever, she doesn't know what actual houses look like and she's just trying to figure out where the marble columns and gauze draperies are. "So," he says. "You're following Santana Lopez around now? I mean, don't get me wrong, but that kind of seems like a terrible idea. And if anyone knows what terrible ideas look like, it should be me."

Berry almost smiles, for a second, but then forces it down, tilting her chin back to look him in the eye. Jesus, she's tiny, and the little sweater she's wearing with the big pink bow on the front doesn't exactly make her look intimidating. Then again, Juliet always looked more sad than scary, and Dave always knew she was the worst of the lot. Maybe Berry will whip out an AK someday, shock everyone. Dave would pay good money to see that day come. "I want answers," Berry says. "I want to know what's happening, with Blaine and his dad. I want to know if Kurt's in danger. I want to know if _Finn_ \--"

"Everyone's in danger," Dave says, because it's the truth. "Everyone that Mr. Anderson thought about for more than thirty seconds, everyone that he might give two shits about is in danger. You, Finn, Kurt -- Probably even me. That's the first thing you need to know. If They think for one second that they can use you to get to Mr. Anderson, you're in danger." Berry just stares up at him, like it hadn't even occurred to her that something bad could really happen to her. "It's kind of dumb when you think about it. I mean, all of them -- Juliet and Sayid and even my dad -- they always made a big deal about how dangerous Mr. Anderson was. About what he could do when he got pissed off. How easily he could hurt people. And here he is, and he's put all of us in danger, just by giving a shit whether we live or die."

"They really want him that bad," Rachel says, softly. "Why? Is it -- What Finn was saying, back in the choir room, about Blaine, about him maybe being -- is it true? He can see the future? And they want him to --"

"They want him because the Island wants him," Dave says. "And the Island gets what it wants."

Berry keeps staring at him, eyes saucer-round. "It's an Island," she says, softly. "It can't --"

"It's more than just an Island," Dave tells her. "Come on. I'll show you."

He takes two steps to his room, then stops, turns around. Rachel's still just standing there, staring.

"Look," he says. "I've got an ankle monitor on. The cops come check on me like every other day to make sure I'm not violating the terms of my house arrest. If I screw up, I go to jail. Not juvie, like Puck -- real, adult jail. Or worse, if I get the attention of the wrong group of people, although it's probably too late for that, seeing who my dad was hanging out with. And the only reason I did what I did in the first place was I thought I could help him. Not sure why I bothered, now. Anyway, he's long gone. I've got no reason to hurt you."

"You never needed a reason before," she says, and there it is again, the part of her that could probably take someone out with an AK-47 if it really, really had to. "Last year, you didn't have a reason, and it never stopped you."

"Last year, I thought the most important thing in the world was popularity," he says. "It never occurred to me that it'd be okay to be unpopular as long as I was still alive. So yeah, my priorities have shifted a little. It's about survival now. So the question is, do you want to survive, or don't you?"

Berry just looks at him, and the thing is, Dave honestly can't tell whether she's scared, or whether she believes him at all, or whether she's going to stay.

Then she lifts her chin. "Okay," she says. "Okay. So show me."

 

 

_December 24th (continued)_

 

 

It's not the first time Kurt's spent Christmas in a hospital.

He was a lot younger the last time, of course, too young to really do much of anything apart from smiling real big every time his mom looked at him and giving her kisses every time she asked for them and making sure his hugs were extra-super-gentle because she bruised so easily. He's older now; he can do more. So he does.

He does everything, or at least as close as he can come.

He makes sure Miss Holliday knows she's invited, because a) it's completely obvious she knows everything about Mr. Anderson and Blaine and the spooky mind-control Island anyway, and b) he's pretty sure she and Mr. Anderson have kind of a thing going on and he's not going to do anything ridiculous like putting mistletoe over Mr. Anderson's hospital bed or anything, but if his experience with his dad and Carole is anything to go by, he doesn't need to. Having them in the same room together is enough. So he talks her into coming.

Then there's no way he's making Mr. Anderson or Miss Holliday or Blaine or _anyone_ eat hospital food for Christmas Dinner, so he starts a batch of turkey chili in the crockpot so it'll be ready by the time they leave for the hospital. Cookies, of course -- he has Blaine help Finn with the decorations, because he knows that Blaine would rather be at the hospital with his father and needs the distraction, and because Finn has been kind of quiet and weird lately and sugar usually perks him up. And of course, everyone needs a stocking, so he helps Carole with those. Presents to wrap, and then making sure everything is packed up and left by the front door so they can just grab it on their way to the car rather than making fifty trips back for one last thing...

And then a short, awkward conversation with his father to mirror the one he'd had with Mr. Anderson earlier that day, and when it's over, he goes back into the kitchen, where Blaine is standing at the sink, most of his weight on his good leg, scrubbing frosting out of sticky bowls. He says "Hey," because Blaine's balance still isn't so good and Kurt doesn't want to startle him, and then he comes up behind Blaine, resting one hand on his waist to stabilize him, reaching up with his other hand to brush a smudge of powdered sugar off Blaine's cheekbone. Blaine leans into his touch, smiling a little.

"You can sleep in my room if you want to," Kurt says, completely bypassing the little speech he'd worked up about how he didn't want to presume and this wasn't about pity but if Blaine _wanted_ to, only if he wanted to -- "I mean, not to... to _do_ things, I mean, not that we can't -- but there's things I'm not ready for and it would be weird with everyone in the same house and everything anyway and I don't want to -- But it's Christmas, Blaine. And I can't -- I know you'd rather be with your dad tonight. But you don't have to be alone. If you don't want to. If you do, that's totally fine and I won't be mad, I promise."

" _Kurt_." Blaine puts so much emphasis on his name, always, like he's the most important thing. Or maybe not the most important, because he says _Dad_ that same way, too, but Kurt's definitely up on the list and it makes him nervous but also proud. But he probably shouldn't be thinking about that now with Blaine looking up at him with wide shining eyes, Kurt's hand still resting on his cheek. "Of course I'd want that."

"Okay," Kurt says, and with Blaine's eyes shining and Kurt's hand on Blaine's cheek, it would be so easy to lean in and kiss him --

But then he glances back at the doorway, and he doesn't see his dad but his dad could be just around the corner or Finn could or Carole could and it's not like he thinks he'd get in trouble but kissing in front of his family just feels weird and awkward right now and they will be alone in his room later ( _alone_ ) and he wasn't lying when he said he wasn't planning on doing things but kissing isn't really doing anything, is it? It's just kissing. Which makes him wonder why he doesn't want his father to see him kissing Blaine if kissing isn't doing things, so maybe he should --

But Blaine is already turning back to his dishes, and Kurt's hand slides away from his face to land on his shoulder. So. Later.

"Okay," Blaine says, tips of his ears turning red, and Kurt smiles.

 

 

_December 23rd_

 

Puck had insisted on singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," because he didn't want to imply that he himself was celebrating Christmas (although he actually does), and although Kurt would ordinarily have fought to the death for any Judy Garland solo, he politely declined for reasons that Rachel didn't understand at the time, and she was so rattled that she just stood back and let Puck have his solo.

Standing here in Mr. Anderson's hospital room, seeing Blaine perched on the edge of his father's hospital bed, looking at his father with wide, wet eyes as Puck croons, "Faithful friends who are dear to us..."

She gets it now.

_"Don't you get it?" he asked. "It's not about Juliet and Sayid and Mrs. Kwon and my dad. It's not about The Man in Charge, whoever he is. It's not about any of us. It's about the Island. The_ Island _wants them. And sooner or later, it'll get them, no matter how many people it has to kill for that to happen."_

She knows that's what he told Santana, too. She knows that because of the crease between Santana's eyebrows, the way she presses her lips together, folded tight. She knows it because when Blaine softens and leans in and rests his head against his father's shoulder, Santana reaches out without looking and grabs Brittany's hand and squeezes it tight

"Through the years, we all will be together... If the fates allow..."

_"You can't fight fate," Karofsky said. "I mean, I tried. Look where it got me."_

"And have yourself a Merry Little Christmas now."

Blaine and his father applaud; Blaine's father says, very sincerely, "Thank you, Noah. Thank you, all of you. This is... Very kind of you, thank you."

Standing nearest the bed, Kurt reaches out and lays a hand on Mr. Anderson's shoulder, and Mr. Anderson turns and smiles up at him.

Finn's big hand wraps around Rachel's and squeezes hard.

_Sitting in Karofsky's abnormally tidy room, with the books from his homeschool classes piled neatly on the desk, the OSU flag centered perfectly on the wall above it, the Toledo Blue Jackets poster in its frame on the wall by the bed, Rachel had thought about what Karofsky was saying. She'd thought about fate and destiny and choice._

_And then she'd stood up, and said, "Maybe you just didn't fight hard enough," and grabbed her purse, and ran out, pausing only to make sure that her hubcaps were still on her car before she got in and drove away._

Mr. Schue says, "Actually, we're not quite finished yet," and pulls out a small, self-lighting Christmas tree from behind his back.

Rachel twines her fingers with Finn's and squeezes back.

If he's not giving up, then neither is she.

 

 

_December 24th_

 

 

There is, of course, a part of Kurt that is convinced that Blaine will wake up hyperventilating, panicked, so terrified of what he's seen in his sleep that he's unable to draw in enough breath to scream. That, really, is why he wants Blaine to sleep in his bed, so if something happens to him, Kurt will know the moment it happens, and not after. Because Blaine's father isn't there with him, and someone should be, just in case.

So that's why Kurt has Blaine sleep in his bed.

But Blaine doesn't wake up hyperventilating.

Instead, right around three in the morning, he rolls over in Kurt's loose grip and, with his eyes still tight shut, says, "Walt says to make sure Hugo stops in and says 'hey' before he has to go back."

Then he tucks his head underneath Kurt's chin, snuggles in close and sweet, and falls back to sleep.

Kurt lays there with his arms still wrapped around Blaine, eyes fixed on the opposite wall, and wonders what the hell Blaine just said and whether it even means anything at all. Maybe it's just a dream. Maybe not. Who is Hugo? Who's Walt? What does that mean, "he goes back?" Is Hugo leaving? Is Walt?

Is it someone else?

He has no idea.

But Blaine didn't sound that upset, so in the end, Kurt sighs and lets it go, drifts back to sleep with Blaine still tucked tight to his chest, and in the morning he barely even remembers that Blaine woke up at all.

 

 

_December 26th_

 

 

"This is an impressive amount of research," Wes says, flipping through the thick manila folder Rachel had presented him with at the start of their little tête-à-tête. It's not that Rachel doesn't trust Wes exactly, although the last time she sat down with the head of a rival show choir the whole thing ended two months later with several unhatched baby chickens meeting a premature demise on top of her head, so she feels some caution is warranted. Mostly, though, she wants to prove that she's more than just some innocent teenage girl who needs to be kept sheltered and protected in some little box somewhere. That whether or not Mr. Anderson realizes it, whether or not Miss Holliday realizes it, whether or not _Finn_ realizes it, she's useful. And she can do things. Helpful things.

Things like, for example, trolling Facebook for memorial pages for the lives lost on Oceanic Flight 815 in order to cobble together a crude passenger manifest, complete with candid pictures and biographies, with little stars to mark those passengers with military or police training who might be sent to Lima, Ohio when the people in charge on the Island realize that Sayid Jarrah and his somewhat unusual strike team have failed in their mission. Or, say, spending the better part of a day on various conspiracy-theory websites until she'd learned everything it was possible to know about the DHARMA Initiative. Or mapping out the entire corporate structure of Paik Heavy Industries in order to determine just how Sun Hwa Kwon had wound up staying with Wesley and his family.

"Well, the more I learned, the more I realized I didn't really know anything, so I thought I should try to correct that," she says, and smiles at him -- she's been working on a new smile, her "Actually a Secret Agent So Don't Push Me" smile, and it's not perfect yet but judging by the grin and the raised eyebrows she gets in exchange, it's pretty close. "There's still a lot that doesn't make sense, but. I think I'm starting to see the shape of things more clearly now. Although obviously I don't know everything just yet, which is why I agreed to meet with you. And I do have some questions for you."

Wes continues to grin at her, like he's charmed; it's funny how his green and red Christmas sweater sits exactly the same way his blazer would. He doesn't even really seem to need the tie. "Please," he says, and spreads his hands. "Ask away."

"All right," Rachel says. She pulls a notebook out of her purse and opens it to the first blank page. "Well, for starters, since this is the first time you and I have interacted since Sectionals and I knew absolutely nothing about any of this since I only found out what was going on five days ago and I haven't talked to anybody about it except for Karofsky and somehow I doubt that you and he are friends, I'd really like to know how _you_ knew to reach out to me exactly when you did."

Wes's smile doesn't falter a jot; if anything, it widens. "You know, of course, that Miss Holliday is working with Blaine's father," he says, curling both hands around his cup of coffee, and Rachel nods back at him. "That's why she's at McKinley. But it's not -- It's not her cover. It's not an excuse for her to hang around Lima while she does some important business for Blaine's father. Her business is McKinley; she's there to keep an eye on the students. To keep an eye on _you_ , Rachel. And your classmates."

_He's put all of us in danger, just by giving a shit whether we live or die._

"And she's... She's good at her job."

Was Miss Holliday in the hallway when Rachel slipped out of the choir room? Did she see Rachel following Santana to her car? Rachel'd been so preoccupied with Santana and Finn; she hadn't even thought -- "Okay, but how does she -- I mean, obviously assuming she knows about Mrs. Kwon, she would know about you and your family and Paik Industries, but why would she --"

"Why would she ask me to talk to you instead of coming to you herself?" Wes asks, his smile fading away. He contemplates his coffee for a few moments, then lifts his gaze to look at Rachel. "Did you ever wonder how the people on the Island found out about Blaine and his father, Rachel?"

Rachel's not sure where the change in his demeanor is coming from; she's not sure she's comfortable with it. She doesn't think he's going to hurt her, but there's something... Guilt, maybe? "Of course," she says, softly. "Of course I did."

"It was my fault." Wes's eyebrows draw together in a frown; he drops his eyes to his coffee again. "I mean, I suppose -- But I'd never thought to look into him. Blaine, I mean. It seemed ordinary enough, what he was going through. I would never have suspected -- Which, of course, was the point. Then Aunt Sun came along. And then other people. Never when Blaine himself was over, never letting them see him, but. After, they would come. And talk to Sun. And I... I started to wonder.

"So I started looking into Blaine. The way you looked into the Oceanic survivors." He toys with the manila folder that Rachel'd brought with her. "And eventually I pieced it together; not everything, but enough to know what could happen if Sun and her friends actually got their hands on Blaine. And I knew I had to do something to stop them; I just didn't know what.

"And I know I could've gone to Blaine first, or Mr. Anderson, that I _should_ have, but... I couldn't." He shakes his head. "I just couldn't. But then Miss Holliday showed up, and she was willing to let me do something. To be useful. And now she's asked me to do the same thing for you. To listen to you, to believe you, and to find a way for you to help, too. Blaine and his father, they're not good at asking for help, but. They need it. They need us. If you're interested."

Wes smiles at her. "You _are_ interested, aren't you?"

Somehow, Rachel manages to smile back. "Yes," she says, nodding. "Yes, of course. I want to... I want to help."

 

 

_December 25th_

 

 

There is a moment, sitting in his hospital room, looking at the people gathered around him, where he catches himself thinking that if this is goodbye, it's not a bad one. As goodbyes go, it could be worse.

Holly's next to him in a moment, almost as if she knows. "You're thinking about it again," she says, voice soft in his ear. "Aren't you?"

"Bit difficult not to," he murmurs, eyes fixed on Blaine, who is happily pulling on a thick wool sweater, patterned with knit snowflakes. His head emerges from the collar, all tousled curls, and Kurt, laughing, reaches out to fix him. They're so very young, so very happy in this moment. "I don't understand," Ben says, voice pitched low so that only Holly can hear him. "Why would anyone want the Island when they could have this?"

Holly's hand settles on his, their fingers intertwining.

Blaine turns to look at him, smiling brightly, Kurt's fingers still smoothing his hair, and Ben smiles back at his son, Holly's hand warm and tight around his.

This is not goodbye. He won't let it be.

 

 

_January 1st_

 

 

Rachel sounds sleepy and confused when she answer the phone; it's midnight in L.A., or at least it is according to his watch. Except Jesse's not in L.A. -- he's somewhere that is not quite Nebraska, so he's not even sure what time it is here and of course he has no idea at all what time it is in Ohio -- the only math he's ever really been good at dividing a measure into eighth and quarter notes, which seems really kind of weird and hilariously ironic now if that's actually what irony is but he's never really been sure about that because he hasn't ever gone to his English classes just like he never really went to his math classes except for one time with one teacher and why it had to be --

And he's pretty sure he might actually feel bad about waking Rachel up at three am or whatever, because he does sort of still care for her, except he's calling because he does care for her. Because the weird scary calculus teacher from her school is psychic or maybe his son is or maybe this kid Walt is or maybe all of them are and probably Hurley is although he hasn't said as much and now there's weird mercenaries from a magic disappearing Island coming after the psychic math teacher like some sort of crazy paranormal _Breaking Bad_ and Jesse has no idea what he's supposed to do about any of it but he can't be a coward anymore because of what the lady at the church said and obviously the best place to start is by warning Rachel, because he does care for her even if he did break her heart for a fourth consecutive Nationals Trophy but he regrets that and that's something, right?

And he's not entirely sure how much of that actually comes out when he tries to explain himself, because it's midnight in L.A. and God-knows-when in Ohio and he's not in either of those places anyway and he's had a really long day except actually it's been more like a really long year and everything that Hurley told him is all jumbled up with everything else that's happened since he went to L.A. which is actually kind of a lot of things and it turns out that he didn't even realize how much was happening until he met Hurley and now that he has he doesn't know what's happening anymore except he does but he can't seem to get it into words that make any kind of sense.

And then, embarrassingly, he actually starts to cry.

"I know it sounds crazy," he says, still sniffling, and he's really glad that it's on the phone and not real life because he's an ugly crier which is why he always makes a point of staring pensively into the distance except apparently he can't do that today. "And I know -- I know you don't have any reason to believe me, Rachel, but I swear to God, I'm not lying to you; I'm really, truly --"

"I believe you," Rachel says, softly.

"-- absolutely, I swear to you, not --" Then it penetrates, and he blinks back fresh tears because it doesn't make sense for him to cry if Rachel believes him but then nothing makes sense anymore anyway. "You do? You believe me?"

"I do," Rachel says. "I... I know. About Mr. Anderson. About all of it."

Jesse blinks again, but this time it's not because he's crying. "You -- Wait, what?"

"I know," Rachel says again. "It's... complicated -- David Karofsky held Kurt and Santana and Blaine hostage in the home ec room, and then Blaine got shot in the leg to protect them, and he and Kurt started dating and then Kurt's dad married Finn's mom and somehow Finn found out about everything -- I think probably Blaine told Kurt and Kurt told his family or something like that? And then Finn started spending time with Santana, which struck me as suspicious becuse he almost lost his virginity to her that one time, so I did some digging, and... And I know. I know about all of it. I haven't met Walt, but I'm working with a friend of his and... No, this is good. This is really good."

"It is?" Jesse asks.

"It is," Rachel says.

And then she launches into a ten-minute explanation that makes even less sense than what Jesse had told her, and fills up his brain until there is absolutely no space for new information. He's sure of it.

When he finally leaves the bathroom, Hurley's sitting up on the edge of the bed, waiting for him. "So they'll be expecting us," he says.

"Yeah," Jesse says. "Yeah, I guess they will."

"Well," Hurley says. "All right then." And then he settles back on the bed, on his side this time, and says, "You should try to get some sleep, dude. Just, like, throw something at me if I wind up on my back again, and I'll roll over. 'Kay?"

"Okay," Jesse says, and turns off the lights, and climbs into bed, and stares at the ceiling for a long, long time.


	12. The Adventures of Hugo and Jesse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse St. James would much rather be back in L.A., singing Driveshaft's Greatest Hit on street corners and waiting tables, because he is a coward at heart. But there is a reason the fat Mexican stepped in front of his car this morning, and Jesse doesn't get to be a coward today.

_January 1st_

 

On New Year's Day, Jesse St. James takes one last look in the rearview mirror, one final moment to appreciate the city that chewed him up and spat him back out again, and then looks back out the windshield of his car just in time to see an enormous Mexican in a green plaid shirt step into traffic right in front of him.

He does the only thing he can do.

He slams on the brakes.

The Mexican guy stares at Jesse. Jesse stares at the Mexican.

The next thing Jesse knows, the guy is climbing into the passenger seat of his car.

"What?" he asks. "I -- Who? What? I mean -- no, you can't -- What are you -- Get out of my car!"

He shoves a little at the guy's shoulder, but the guy's already wedged into position, shutting the door behind him and buckling his seatbelt. "Dude, seriously," the guy says. "I'll give you gas money, okay? Just --" He reaches into the pocket of his shirt, pulls out a wad of money, drops it into Jesse's lap. "Just drive."

Jesse stares at the fat Mexican, then down at the rubber-band wrapped bundle of money in his pocket. It's easily enough to pay off his student loans, with interest, and he was an out-of-state student. "Is this drug money?" he asks, bewildered. "Is this -- did you rob a drug dealer?"

"What?" The fat guy actually has the nerve to look offended at that. "No. I didn't -- Look, would you just drive already?"

Then he looks out the window, and then at the rearview, and then twists around and stares at the back windshield even though it's pretty much blocked by Jesse's luggage, like someone's coming after them any second now, and he totally just robbed a drug dealer. He robbed a drug dealer, and then carjacked Jesse, and there's probably a made for TV movie in this somewhere, or maybe even some kind of an action film, and Jesse is already trying to figure out if it would be offensive if he replaced the fat Mexican with someone like Chris Rock or maybe even Jackie Chan, why not, when he realizes that if he wants to live long enough to star in the Clint Eastwood version of that time he got carjacked by a fat Mexican on New Year's Day, he's actually going to have to get the hell out of L.A. before the drug dealers find him.

So he hits the gas, and the car lurches forward, wheels screeching on the pavement.

"Woah!" The fat Mexican clutches at the door handle as Jesse continues to floor it, weaving left and right around slower traffic to the sound of a chorus of horns. Up ahead of them, a light turns yellow, and Jesse just keeps the pedal pressed to the mat, dodges into the opposite lane so he doesn't slam into the people stopping ahead of them. The light goes red anyway, and Jesse just speeds through it, forcing everyone else to slam on their brakes. More horns, more squealing brakes (and Jesse just keeps speeding because holy crap car chases are _fun_ ), and the fat guy goes nuts, grabbing his shoulder and tugging at him, so hard that Jesse actually swerves the car just to make him back off. "Woah! Woah! Are you crazy? What is _wrong_ with you? Do you want to get arrested? Or killed?"

"Look, man, you're the one who robbed the drug dealers, not me," Jesse says, grinning, but he then he thinks about it for a second and decides to ease off the gas just a little bit. The moment they get arrested, this turns into a buddy cop movie, and he doesn't like the way he looks in navy blue. "I'm just trying to make sure neither of us dies."

"I _told_ you --" The guy sighs and lets go of him, turning to stare out the window. "Okay, fine, whatever. Drug dealers. Whatever. I'm sure we've lost them by now, so if you could please --"

"Of course we've lost them," Jesse says, and slows down a little more, and when he merges into the far right lane, he uses his signal just to be extra-cautious. "I'm an excellent getaway driver. You're lucky you found me. So. Where are we going, anyway?"

There's a long pause, and if it wasn't for the fact that the Mexican's elbow is totally crowding into Jesse's personal space bubble, Jesse would think he'd just... fallen out of the car or something

Finally, the guy says, "You ever hear of a place called Lima, Ohio?" and it takes everything Jesse has to keep his jaw from dropping open in a really unattractive way.

"What?"

 

_last year_

 

He has no idea what to do with himself most of the day.

He doesn't get it. Why do they all go to their classes? There aren't a lot of Asians here, but there's the boy Chang and the girl Chang, and the wheelchair kid could probably pick up the slack for the rest of them, since he wouldn't need glasses that thick if he didn't spend the majority of his time reading and thinking and doing other things that strain his eyes and divert blood from the parts of his brain that would otherwise be used for making himself attractive and marketable. So really, there's no need for any of the other glee kids to go to their classes. But they all do, even the cheerleaders. It doesn't make sense. How are they ever supposed to win anything if they don't spend all their time rehearsing? Do they _want_ to be failures forever?

Apparently, they do. Because each and every one of them, from Rachel to Finn to the sad pregnant one to the gay kid, they all go to their classes.

How they expect to get anywhere in life, Jesse has no idea.

He spends most of his time by himself in the auditorium, practicing, testing the acoustics, getting the homeless guy in the light booth to help him get the lights set just so in order to really bring out the twinkle in his eyes that's gotten him so far, and trying to figure out where they keep their pyrotechnics (sometimes he wonders if they even have _any_ \-- but obviously they must, or how are they ever going to compete at the Nationals level? No one ever won a show choir competition without setting things on fire.) And for the first week, that's okay.

Then even that gets boring -- it's weird, singing and dancing without anyone to scream at him or offer criticism or throw flowers at his feet -- and he starts taking little breaks to wander around the school.

It's a strange place; nothing at all like Carmel, of course. There's no conversation pits or little corner lounges with comfortable chairs, and although Jesse's gone looking for the photo gallery from show choirs past, he's yet to find one (which is strange, because he's heard that they actually might have been good, once, in the fifties or the nineties or something like that). And there's all these hand-painted posters on the walls, for "school spirit" or something like that, and apparently they actually have the students paint them rather than just farming the work out to a sign company like any sensible person would do. It's bizarre.

And all the classrooms are full, of course, noisy crowds of students laughing and joking and passing notes and elbowing and shooting spit balls and throwing pencils at the ceiling, like classrooms from eighties high school movies. It's not like Carmel, where there were two to four Asians for every class and everyone else was practicing things. It's...

It's awful, is what it is.

But then Jesse finds a quiet room. It's not the astronomy room, which is usually pretty peaceful except for some faint sucking sounds, but is also usually dark. This one has all the lights on, and when Jesse looks in the window, he sees a teacher standing at the front, talking, but his is the only voice Jesse hears. No one is laughing, no one's making comments. Nothing is being shattered. Honestly, he's not even sure there's any students in there. Maybe the guy in the front isn't a teacher. Maybe he's homeless, and he's pretending, like the guy in the light booth in the auditorium.

There's only one way to find out.

He waits until the teacher turns to the whiteboard to start writing things down, and then he very carefully opens the door and peers inside.

He sees a room full of students, sitting quietly at attention. Guy Chang is in the very front row; he turns and stares at Jesse. Jesse had no idea Asians could get their eyes so wide, but somehow Guy Chang is managing it. Then Guy Chang looks back at the front again, and Jesse turns to see what he's looking at, and there's the teacher, who apparently is actually a teacher. It's weird, because he's wearing khakis and a tan sweater vest and a pale green shirt, not all black with spike heels, and he has little glasses and he doesn't look scary at all, not the way that Ms. Corcoran is scary. But he's scary.

"Mr. St. James," the teacher says. "Well. I see you've finally decided to join us. Please, have a seat."

Jesse straightens up, lets his shoulders fall back. It doesn't matter how scary the guy in the sweater vest is; he's _Jesse St. James_. "I'm sorry," he says, as politely as he can. "But there's some sort of mistake. You see, I'm in the Glee Club, and --"

Someone snickers in the back row, and Mr. Sweatervest turns away from Jesse for just a moment, just one quick glance, and the room is deathly silent again. Then Sweatervest turns back to Jesse. "Yes," he says. "I was aware of that, Mr. St. James. Perhaps you were not aware that you're also in several other classes, including pre-calculus. And regardless of what Ms. Cororcoran may have arranged for you at Carmel, here at McKinley you are required to attend all of your classes. Including this one. Unless you'd rather go back home?"

He would, is the thing. He really, really would. But if he's not bringing Rachel with him, so she can meet Ms. Corcoran and be her daughter and also the new star of Vocal Adrenaline and help them get National Championships for the next three years --

If he doesn't bring Rachel back with him, there's no point in coming home at all. Jesse might be a star at Carmel, but he's replaceable. Everyone is replaceable. He learned that when he was five.

He hurries to the only open seat, next to some big guy in a letterman's jacket and a crew cut who stares at Jesse's empty hands and lack of backpack in disbelief. "Dude," the big guy murmured. "You are so out of your league right now."

"Something to share, Mr. Karofsky?" Sweatervest asks, and the big guy falls abruptly silent.

"Now," Sweatervest says. "Of course, in its formal expression, the Binomial Theorem may not appear to be very user-friendly, but it is possible to simplify it, once we realize the basic pattern involved. Let's take a simple binomial, say 'a + b,'" and he writes it out on the white board, "and now take it to the second power," more writing, and Jesse has no idea what's going on anymore. He thought pre-calculus was math. Why are there letters and not numbers?

He opens his mouth to ask, and the big guy sitting next to him cuffs him in the shoulder, shakes his head, mouths the word " _Don't_."

For a few seconds, Jesse is going to anyway, but then he sees that Mr. Sweatervest has stopped writing, as though he's listening to something, and he falls silent.

"And multiplying that out gives us a squared plus two-a-b plus b squared. So now if we were to take it to the _third_ power --"

It's official. Jesse has to get Rachel to figure out that Shelby's her real mom, and he has to do it three weeks ago.

 

_December 24th_

 

He watches Carole Hudson-Hummel's expression shift as she makes her way through the letter -- wistful fondness turning to comprehension, to understanding. Then to grief, and regret, and when she lays the letter down on the table and looks up at Sayid again, more than a little dread.

"I almost believed her," she says, wiping at her eyes. "Your friend Nadia, when she came. I almost believed her, when she said that Chris hadn't -- That he was still a good man. I wanted to believe her so much, but I --"

Sayid reaches out and rests his hand over hers; there's a shock of surprise on her face, but she doesn't pull away from him. "Good men can do terrible things in a war," he reminds her. "Your husband thought he was saving lives. I can... understand why he did what he did. And forgive."

"Really?" Carole still doesn't pull away, but her expression is almost amusingly suspicious. "What he did to you, what he made you do --"

"Was a long time ago," Sayid says. "Can I ask -- Finn wasn't entirely sure what had happened to his father, but he seemed to think... He seemed to think your husband took his own life. Is that --"

Carole turns away for a moment, wipes her eyes with her free hand. "I should have told him sooner," she murmurs, half to herself. "I should have -- But it was hard enough for him, growing up without Chris, and I didn't want... It's a lot to explain, to a child. And it was a lot... It hurt. It hurt, and I was so angry, and I just -- "

"I'm so sorry," Sayid says, and means it.

"Finn was six months old," Carole continues. "I had to keep going. For him, I had to... I had to keep breathing, keep putting one foot in front of the other, day after day. Keep him fed, keep the house clean, keep the bills paid on time, be there for him. He needed me. So I did what I had to, to keep moving." She wipes at her eyes again. "See, that's the thing, Sayid. You can forgive Christopher because you were a soldier, because you know what a soldier would do to try to protect his own. I don't understand that quite the same way. But I know what a parent would do to protect their child. I know, and I understand, and I can forgive. Because I would do anything for Finn. Just like Ben would do anything for Blaine."

"Of course," Sayid says. It's impressive, how even now she has the presence of mind to bring the topic back around to Ben and Blaine. But then, she has a survivor's instincts. "I understand. And I would like to help you. But."

"Nadia," Carole says. "I understand completely. We'll arrange a meeting; you'll see that she's not in any danger, and then --"

"Nadia is not the woman I am concerned about," Sayid says. "Tell me, Carole. Have you heard the name Sun Hwa-Kwon before?"

A flicker of... something passes over Carole's face, too quick for Sayid to name it. Then she nods.

"Yes," she says, and whether or not it's entirely true is somewhat debatable, but it's true enough for the two of them right now. "Yes, I have."

 

_January 1st_

 

It's a good thing they get stuck in gridlock almost as soon as the fat Mexican drops his little "Lima, Ohio," bombshell, because Jesse starts to hyperventilate and briefly forgets how to drive.

"So," the Mexican says. "You've heard of it."

"No," Jesse says, because _no_.

There's a pause. "You haven't heard of it?"

"Of course I've heard of it," Jesse snaps, and then five people honk at him and he realizes the lane ahead of him has opened up so he hits the gas pedal and lurches forward twenty feet and then slams the brake and jerks the car to a stop about an inch from the bumper of a green Honda Civic. "I spent the worst month of my life going to school in Lima, Ohio and the girl whose heart I broke is still there with her stupid giant boyfriend who can't sing like me and definitely can't dance like me, which is why I'm going to win her back because I'm better except I can't be better if I've got you and your drug money in the car with me so you're going to have to get out right now because I'm not driving you anywhere."

And then the lane ahead of him opens up again, and Jesse hits the gas and then hits the brake. Lurch, jerk, stop. It makes him a little queasy, which is fine. Maybe if he pukes on the Mexican, the Mexican will get out of his car.

"Okay," the Mexican says. "So, first off, okay, it's _not_ drug money. It's from the lottery, okay? I won the lottery."

"Great, you're very lucky," Jesse says. Jerk, lurch, stop. "I don't care. Get out of my car."

"See," the Mexican says, "there are these... numbers."

 

_November, this year_

 

Watching _Once_ is what gives him the idea to busk. And it's a good idea. It's a great idea, in fact. Or it would be a great idea if he knew how to play any instrument besides the piano, which is great for accompanying himself at auditions but terrible for performing in the street with. So he has to hook up with a friend of his from UCLA who knows how to play the guitar, except they're not really friends and the guy doesn't really know how to play the guitar. He knows two songs -- "Wonderwall," which isn't bad the first three or four times but gets increasingly awful from there, and "You All Everybody," which -- Driveshaft? Really? Jesse didn't even know that song had _words_ (apart from "You all everybody!" of course, which. _Really?_ ) But Jesse St. James has never been a quitter (except for UCLA, but who knew that other teachers in the world could be as bad as Mr. Anderson?), so he takes his friend who is not really his friend and heads out to the streets of LA and sings about fancy people wearing expensive clothes and tries not to wince visibly when the guy on the guitar comes in for the backup parts late and flat.

They get nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except for one twenty-dollar bill, dropped in the case by a really startlingly attractive guy with dark curly hair and big dark eyes, and Jesse is 100% hetero for a fact, but honestly when he looks at that guy he's suddenly more like 80% hetero. And the guy smiles at him, and drops the twenty in the guitar case, and Jesse's already preparing the script for the movie where he becomes a part-time male gigolo out of desperation (this will not be a porn movie, but arty, like _Brokeback Mountain_ or the one his roommate made him watch where the guy hums "America the Beautiful" while giving blowjobs), except there's no phone number on the twenty dollar bill when he finally gets to it.

He keeps it anyway, since he's obviously the one who earned it. The guy with the guitar doesn't agree, because he's an asshole who lacks talent and common sense, and it breaks up the band, but Jesse doesn't care.

He's better off as a solo act anyway.

 

_December 24th_

 

He knows, of course, that Benjamin Linus is far from helpless. He knows that the man in the wheelchair, with his hat pulled low over his eyebrows and his scarf wrapped tight around his neck and the blanket spread over his lap by loving hands is no invalid; and that, tumor or no tumor, if that man thinks for one moment that Sayid means to attempt to get past him, to get to his son, that he will do whatever is in his power to stop him.

He knows, too, that the woman with Benjamin Linus is undoubtedly armed, and that if she thought Sayid meant to hurt Ben, she'd kill him without a second's thought.

Sayid knows both these things. But he knows, too, that in this moment, he is perfectly safe.

Because at this moment, he has no plans to harm anyone.

"Hello, Sayid," Benjamin says, looking up at him, obviously completely unafraid. "You don't mind if I call you Sayid, do you?"

"Not at all," Sayid says. "And I suppose I should call you Benjamin."

"Ben, please." Benjamin -- _Ben_ \-- wheels himself a little further forward, into the light. He's pale, wide-eyed, ghostly in the florescent light of the hospital's parking garage. Then he smiles, and pulls a packet of papers out from underneath the blanket on his lap, passes it over to Sayid. "Here," he says. "I can't guarantee you she'll be on the plane, since I'm obviously not with her, but Carole believes she's coming, and I believe Carole. I had thought we could put Ms. Jaseem in a hotel, rather than having her stay at my house, but unfortunately we weren't able to find a room on such short notice. So you have my spare key. I'm assuming you don't need me to give you the address?"

Sayid smiles back at him. "I have it," he says. "But thank you."

"Holly was kind enough to do some grocery shopping, so the kitchen should be well stocked with the essentials. There's plenty of clean bedding, clean towels -- books, if she needs something to read. Of course, the sleeping arrangements are at her discretion, although personally I might prefer it if Blaine's room was... unoccupied, for the duration of her stay here. He is a teenager, and privacy is important at that age, so. I've always done my best to make sure he has his own private sanctuary, and I'd appreciate it if that was respected."

"Of course," Sayid says. He's aware, of course, that this might simply be a pretext for Ben to hide certain things in his son's room, but then he supposes anything that Ben didn't want seen, he would already have taken with him. At any rate, he's more interested in the things that Benjamin Linus wants him to see. The rest can remain hidden, for now. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Nothing that I can think of," Ben replies, still with that wide smile of his. Whatever game they're playing, it's obviously one he enjoys. "Of course, you're staying at my house, so I suppose if I really do need to get a hold of you, I know the number." He backs his chair up a little bit, so that Miss Holliday can reach out and grab the handles again (she seems to relax a little, having them in her grip). "Oh, but there is one more thing."

Of course there is.

Sayid says nothing, merely smiles.

"Holly has told me that you and I might be able to find some common ground," Ben says. "There was a certain promise you made, involving a Mrs. Sun Kwon? I was thinking perhaps we should discuss that sometime."

"Perhaps we should," Sayid says.

Ben nods at him. "Of course," he adds, "given that Mrs. Kwon is here, and undoubtedly has her own opinions on this promise that you made, any conversation we had would have to include her, too."

_That_ takes Sayid back a bit; Sun is desperate to get back to the Island, far more so than Sayid. Surely, she and Ben can have no common ground, so why would he --

"But if you're not interested," Ben says, and Holly's hands tighten on the handles of the wheelchair.

"Oh no," Sayid says, quickly. "I'm... interested." Because it's true, at least. He has no idea what Benjamin Linus could have planned, but he is very, very interested in finding out.

"Excellent," Ben says. "Well. I'd better get back to my room before my son sees that I've been out wandering. But we'll be in touch. Merry Christmas, Sayid."

"Merry Christmas," Sayid echoes, and then watches, lost in thought as Holly turns Ben's chair around and wheels him away.

 

_December 22nd_

 

"Close," she says, coming back from whenever she was, shaking her head as if to clear it. "I was close, that time."

"Britt --"

It's her eyes, he thinks. There's something he doesn't like about the look in her eyes every time she comes back. It's not the too-bright, feverish look she had when they first started. Her eyes are dimming now, foggier. He keeps thinking of mice, of aneurysms, of the brain literally exploding.

"It's okay," she says, soothingly. "It's been a long day and we've got school tomorrow. We'll pick it up after glee club, okay?"

"Sure," he says. "Sure thing."

Even as she picks him up to carry him back up the stairs, he starts to wonder -- could she ever use the machine without him? _Would_ she?

She couldn't, of course. It's not like there's a remote control, or a timer, or anything like that. She needs him.

Which is good, because he's terrified of what would happen if she didn't.

 

_January 1st_

 

It's kind of a relief when they get out of L.A.'s gridlock, when Jesse can put the car on cruise control and not have to pay so much attention to what he's doing. It's always a relief, really, because Jesse's not good at paying attention to much except himself, but it's worse today. Because every time he gets distracted and misses a gap that opens up in traffic, everyone behind him starts honking, and then _Hurley_ gets distracted and loses the thread of his story and ordinarily Jesse would be fine with that because he doesn't actually like to hear people talk unless they're talking about him --

But this he is actually, genuinely interested in, so he puts the car on cruise control and turns the radio off and just... listens.

"So then Locke comes back, right, and he's all talking to me like, 'Kate's such a bad person,' you know, 'She killed her stepdad and she ran from the cops' and this and that and the other thing, and it turns out that Kate was being brought back to the States by a US Marshal, except the plane crashed and the Marshal died and Locke's all telling me that it's Kate's fault and that maybe the Marshal could've survived or the Island would've healed him or something except then I thought about it and I realized the Marshal was probably gonna die no matter what because he was hurt really bad, and then also there was that thing where Locke took Boone out into the jungle and he got hurt really bad and he died too, and that wasn't Kate's fault, that was Locke's, so really he was just as bad. And also we don't know why Kate killed her stepfather, because like maybe he was touching her, or he was mean to her mom, or he was like a spy for the Russians or something, so maybe she had a reason. And maybe Locke had a reason for taking Boone into the jungle and getting him hurt and then sort of just abandoning him back at the caves without even apologizing before he died, but maybe he didn't, either.

"But what Kate did? Was like a long time ago, and she was super-awesome on the Island, like saving people and stuff. And Locke had just got Boone killed like two weeks ago, or whatever.

"So I told Locke I wasn't going to go with him, that I was gonna stick with Kate, because I trusted her and I didn't think it was fair of him to try to make me hate her for something she'd done like years ago. And also I didn't want to end up like Boone, and also someone needed to look after Shannon because Boone was dead, and Charlie was still sort of getting off drugs and whatever which was really hard for him, and Kate was trying to take care of him but it was a lot of work and she had to deal with Shannon, too, and the dog, so I told him I was gonna stay with them.

"And then I thought for like a second he was gonna come after me anyway? And like grab me? So I was thinking, like, because he's pretty strong and he's got knives but I'm a big dude, you know, so if I could like sort of pin him down, I could probably -- But then he just said 'I'm sorry to hear that, Hugo,' and told me the Island would help me find him if I changed my mind, and like just... disappeared, back into the jungle.

"So I was going back to Kate and Charlie and Shannon, but I must've got lost or something, and I couldn't figure out where I was, but then I found this door, and I thought maybe it could be the Others so I wasn't going to knock on it but then I heard a noise and I got scared so I knocked on it anyway, and that was how I met Desmond."

 

_December 17th_

 

Waiting tables isn't exactly what Jesse had thought it would be. He practices his best angles relentlessly, just in case, and does different accents for different tables to show off his versatility, but nothing's come of it. He can't understand it; he's been working here at least a week. Maybe a week and a half. Why hasn't he been discovered yet?

One thing's for sure; he's not getting discovered tonight.

His only table is a shifty-looking white guy and an angry black dude, and Jesse learned when he first came to LA not to call black dudes angry unless he was absolutely sure they were angry, and he is absolutely sure this guy is pissed the hell off. Jesse has no idea what the guy's angry about and frankly he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know. All he knows is that every time he goes near the table, the shifty guy looks shiftier and the angry guy looks angrier, and he tries to refill their coffee without getting any nearer than he absolutely has to.

Finally, though, they don't want any more coffee, and Jesse sees a light at the end of the tunnel. He heads off to get a calculator so he can figure out their check, and is just swinging back around to the table when he hears the shifty guy say, "Look, even if I could get you in to see them, what difference does it make? Widmore's got people in every inch of that hotel. You're not getting them out of there."

And Jesse freezes, and then takes two slow steps back, and sinks down quietly into a booth with his back to the table, to listen.

"That's my problem, not yours," the black guy says. "You just get me in there. I'll do the rest."

"I'll..." The shifty guy sighs. "Look, I'll see what I can do. But if you die in there? Not my problem, and I don't care."

Jesse was almost interested in them, for a second. But the moment he hears the word _die_? He starts aggressively, loudly cleaning the booth he's sitting in. Because whoever's going to die in whatever hotel? He doesn't want to know about it.

He doesn't want to know anything at all.

 

_December 25th_

 

It takes more time than expected for Sayid to find what he was looking for. Not that he believes that Ben Linus truly meant for the folder to remain hidden indefinitely; he knew that Sayid would inspect everything in his house (outside the boy's room, of course -- that he has left off limits, out of deference to Ben's wishes). He wanted Sayid to see this, to follow the trail of breadcrumbs. But, for whatever reason, he didn't want to make it too easy.

Sayid might analyze his motives later; at the moment, he's more interested in the folder itself.

He was aware, of course, that Michael had defected the moment Benjamin Linus's son was injured. It was understandable -- the boy was only a little older than Walt, and it would be impossible for Michael not to sympathize with the worried father of a wounded boy. Had Juliet stayed, Michael might have pretended to stay on their side a little longer. But with her gone, Michael's departure had been inevitable. _When_ , rather than _if_.

And _where_ wasn't something Sayid had given much thought to, until now.

Pictures of the butcher's shop, of Jill, of Ethan. Pictures of Sayid himself, when he'd been in L.A. None of this was particularly worrisome, not really; if Ben really was in any kind of contact with Sun, no doubt he knew all of this already. But then there were the other pictures, the ones Sayid knew nothing about. Arzt, standing in front of a hotel. A tall, cadaverous man in a dark suit. An older gentleman, balding. Several men -- mercenaries, judging by the cropped hair and military bearing.

Ethan had mentioned, of course, the mercenaries. Sent by Charles Widmore, he'd said. Widmore, who as fate would have it, had been in Los Angeles the entire time. Working with Leslie Arzt. Who would have told him about Ethan's plans, about Locke's plans. Who would have told him what he'd been told, before he left the Island. That the Island wanted Ben, and that Ethan was prepared to do whatever he had to to bring him back.

And now Widmore and his personal army would be coming after Benjamin Linus, as they had so many times before.

No wonder Ben was so eager to get Sayid and Sun over to his side. Without them, he'd stand no chance at all.

 

_January 1st_

 

"So then Libby went down to the underwater station to turn off the jamming thing except the Others must've found out she was going down there and I don't know how, but they did, because they -- Because _she_ \--"

Hurley wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry," Jesse says, because he genuinely is. Obviously, death is a part of life and it's not worth getting too worked up about (and anyway, it's not like Libby and Hurley knew each other forever; unless Hurley skipped a part, they were together for maybe, like, a week, and even Jesse and Rachel were together longer than that); but still.

Besides, it's not like Hurley's the kind of guy who's beating them off with a stick; seriously, without a severe Atkins intervention and a radical makeover, he'll probably never get a second look from a girl again.

"But I guess Desmond must've gone down after her, because he said she gave him a message."

Hurley doesn't say anything for a long time; desert landscapes flicker past them as they cruise along. Jesse hopes he's going the right way; he hasn't exactly been checking the map a lot. For all he knows, they're going to end up in Canada or something.

But the thing is, even if they do? He feels like it would probably be where they were meant to end up all along.

"So?" he asks, finally. "What was the message?"

"He said --" Hurley takes a deep breath. "He said it wasn't Penny's boat.

"And he was right."

 

_December 29th_

 

Jesse hates churches. They make him feel like he's being watched, but not in a good way. Not like when he's onstage, and people are waiting in breathless anticipation to see what he'll do next. More like when his siblings used to watch him, waiting for him to screw up. To not get the part, to not get the solo, to not get the Nationals Trophy. Waiting for him to fail, so they could take over.

It doesn't help that he's actually failed this time. Kicked out of school, no agent, no record deal, not even a community theater gig...

"Giving up so soon, Jesse?"

The woman who comes out of the shadows has white hair, but her face is weirdly young, and she has a big shawl wrapped around her shoulders, with a pin on it in the shape of a snake. She has a British accent, so she's either a witch or a super-villain, or maybe both. Of course, Jesse doesn't really believe in witches.

Mostly he doesn't believe in witches.

He kind of believes in them right now, though.

"Do I know you?" he asks, trying not to sound scared.

"No." The woman keeps coming forward until she's standing right next to his pew; she stares at him hard for a few seconds until he gets the hint and scoots over. Then she sits down next to him, hands folded in her lap. She smells like incense, like a church. Or like a witch, maybe. "Perhaps it would be best if you left town for a little while," she adds. "Went home to Ohio. That's where you're from, isn't it? Ohio?"

She's a witch. She's really, like, actually, a witch. "How do you --"

"A friend of mine lives there," she says, and turns, and smiles at him. "He's a teacher. Mr. Anderson is the name. You might remember him?"

He doesn't, for a few seconds, and then he does, and his face falls.

The woman just laughs. "You do," she says. "Very good. Do me a favor, Jesse? When you see him again, tell him..." But then she doesn't say anything at all -- she hesitates, with her mouth still open (and she looks a little funny, but Jesse doesn't dare laugh) -- and finally, she says, "Never mind. I'll tell him myself."

Then she stands up, straightens her shawl, and smooths down her skirt. "Drive safely, Jesse," she says, and then turns, and vanishes into the shadows.

Jesse just sits in the pew for a few more minutes. Then he realizes that he probably doesn't want to be in the scary witch church for one more second, and grabs his scarf and bolts.

 

_December 25th_

 

He tries to work it through in his mind, to imagine where she might be in the airport, what she might be doing. Now she is exiting the plane, now she is collecting her luggage, now she is walking through the concourse. He tries not to think that she might not be there. He tries not to think of what it will mean if she never comes.

The arrivals gate slowly fills with people -- college students embracing their parents, children racing towards their grandparents, a few weary business travelers shivering and complaining. And then.

And then.

She's changed, but that's not surprising. Before, she was in a cell -- starved, beaten. Unafraid, of course; he cannot imagine Nadia afraid, but. She believed she was going to die, then, and it showed in every glance of her eyes, in the tilt of her chin. She is alive again now, clean and well-fed and well-groomed, no less beautiful to him now than she was in the black robes they shrouded her in in the prison. Her coat is too thin, perhaps. She could use a scarf. But she is beautiful, alive, _real_ , and his heart stops beating for just a moment before it kickstarts again, irregular.

She isn't looking for him; he realizes, a little late, that she was probably expecting Carole to come for her, perhaps on the arm of her tall son or her broad, bald second husband. This was a last minute change, a sudden improvisation. She has no reason to believe that she'll see him here. He should step forward, he should --

But he's too frightened to move.

Nadia's eyes flick past him as she scans the crowd, looking for one particular face, ignoring all others. Then something in her expression changes. She turns again, more deliberately this time. Searches the crowd, but not looking for Carole this time. Sayid steels his shoulders and waits for her to find him.

Their eyes meet.

The next thing he knows, she's in his arms and the rest of the world has fallen away as they cling to each other.

 

_January 1st_

 

Jesse looks out the windshield. As rest stops go, this one's not exactly scenic. Mostly just desert and parking lot and hot sun, not a lot to see.

He looks out the window and he thinks about everything Hurley's told him.

He doesn't want believe it. He doesn't want to believe any of it. Because all that stuff he was imagining when Hurley got in his car -- the drug dealers and the money and all the rest of it -- he knew the whole time that he was kind of just imagining it. And that was fine; that was fun. It was safe. But all _this_ stuff, the numbers and the plane crash and the smoke monster and the polar bears and John Locke and Others and mercenaries and scary boats and disappearing Islands and ghostly ex-girlfriends --

If this is true, then nothing is safe. All the stuff he would normally believe could never actually happen, if it's really happening --

But he believes Hurley.

He doesn't know why; he doesn't _want_ to, but he does.

Jesse is a coward at heart. He knows this with every fiber of his being. He is not brave. He does not stand up for what is good and true. He is a coward -- an honest coward, but still. A coward.

But there is a reason Hurley got into his car today. He wouldn't have believed it before, but he believes it now. And although he'll probably have forgotten this by tomorrow, and he'll hate himself, and he'll wish he was safely back in LA singing Driveshaft's Greatest Hit and waiting tables --

"So," Hurley says. "Um. Are you gonna, like, kick me out of your car now? Because if you do, you should probably give me some money, so I can like call a cab, or --"

"That's okay," Jesse says, and forces himself to smile. Not a brave smile -- a cocky smile. An action-hero smile. "I mean, we're going to the same place, so."

Hurley just looks at him for a second, and then he starts to tear up. "Dude," he says, softly.

"Like I said, you're lucky you found me," Jesse says; it's not the greatest line, but he's already said it once, and it's important to repeat things. Enough repetition can turn literally anything into a catch phrase. Of course, you have to time it -- Jesse's not sure when he'll be able to say this again. Before bed, maybe, or in the morning. He'll think about it, maybe. It beats thinking about... well. Everything else.

So he keeps smiling his action-hero smile and throws the car into reverse and peels out of the rest stop like Steve McQueen.

He'll regret this later, he knows, but for now, he can pretend it's all still just a game.  



	13. House of the Rising Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wes doesn't really reach out to anyone, but he made an exception for Blaine. Sometimes he wonders if he hurt more than he's helped.

_December 26th_

 

Part of her wants to ask Brittany why she's not with Artie today. Part of her wants to know why Brittany's not in Essex, spending Christmas break with her cousin or uncle or whoever that Daniel guy is supposed to be. Part of her wants to know why Brittany has chosen today, of all days, to remember that they're supposed to be best friends who sometimes talk with their tongues real close.

But most of her is just glad Brittany's there, so Santana doesn't ask questions. She just snuggles up behind Brittany on the bed, wraps her arms around her, and holds her close. And it's perfect, just like that. They don't even need to take their clothes off right now. Just this...

Just this is enough.

"You trust me," Brittany asks, softly, and she just sounds so _sad_. Santana wonders -- She hasn't been spending a lot of time with Brittany lately -- she's been with Artie, and Santana's been working on this whole weird creepy Mr. Anderson and his creepy Island thing, but maybe... Maybe she's missed things. Important things. "Don't you? You trust me."

"Of course I do," Santana says. "You're, like, basically the only person I trust. Britt, what --"

"Sometimes I feel like Artie doesn't trust me," Brittany says, her voice still so very sad. "I think he thinks I don't know what I'm doing. But I do. I'm not stupid. I know what I'm doing. I always know what I'm doing."

Honestly, Santana doesn't know why she's surprised. Artie's just a stupid boy; he takes things at face value. Brittany's not surface smart -- she's down deep, hard to find. Most people look at her and never notice. But Santana's always known. And obviously Mr. Anderson figured it out or he wouldn't have picked her for the Brainiacs (and sometimes, honestly, Santana thinks that's why -- because of the look on Brittany's face when she said she was joining the Brainiacs, how much it meant to her to finally have someone see what she really, truly is inside. That's why Santana actually gives a crap about spooky Mr. Anderson and his spooky magic Island -- because Mr. Anderson actually sees what Santana sees, in Brittany. He sees who she really is).

So why Artie, who is a Brainiac, who has to sit there with Brittany every week and see how smart she is; why he can't seem to figure it out --

But he's a boy, a stupid boy. Nothing more than that.

"You're a genius, Britt," Santana says. "You're the smartest person I know. And if Artie can't figure it out, then forget him. You don't need him."

Brittany doesn't say anything for a long time; Santana worries, maybe, if she's overstepped. She's not trying to break Brittany and Artie up, honestly. She doesn't need to, because she doesn't care, because she's not in love with Brittany. They're best friends and they make out and losing her would be like losing half her internal organs and she'd probably just shut down, but they're not in love, because Santana's not gay. Maybe she will be in college, but right now she likes makeup and short skirts too much. So Santana doesn't want or need to break Brittany and Artie up. She just wants Britt to know she doesn't need any stupid boys, if she doesn't want them. And especially not if they're dumb enough to think she's dumb.

"Britt --" she says, but just then Brittany sort of sighs and melts into her arms, so Santana stops talking because obviously there's no point.

"I'm glad you're my Constant," Brittany says, softly, and Santana smiles into her hair. Of course, Brittany gets it. They're not gay, and they're not girlfriends, and they're not any stupid labels people might want to put on them. They're just... Constant. Always there for each other.

Brittany gets it. She always does.

"Me too," Santana says, and tucks her leg between Brittany's, and kisses the back of her neck, and forgets everything else for a little while.

 

_December 31st_

 

He's nervous.

He's not entirely sure why. They've talked about it already, he and Blaine; he knows that Blaine forgives him (in fact, Blaine seemed to feel that there was nothing to forgive, that it was somehow he who was at fault for -- what, being born? Being special? But it's been a hard road for Blaine, harder than Wes will understand, and so he doesn't question much). But it doesn't change the fact that Wes could have said something sooner, _should_ have said something sooner. And perhaps Blaine and his father would have run, like they have so many times in the past, and perhaps Wes would have lost his friend -- never seen him again, never heard from him again.

Perhaps.

But at least Blaine would have been safe.

And maybe it isn't over. Maybe, just maybe, Blaine's father can arrange the dominoes so they fall just right and it will end here, and now, and Blaine will be safe again. He's good at that, or at least that's what Wes has heard. What Wes's own father has told him. Everything that Wes knows about Benjamin Anderson (formerly known as Benjamin Linus) suggests that the man is an excellent improviser and even better when he's had a chance to plan. And that he has always, always managed to protect his son, no matter how impossible the odds.

Wes has absolutely no reason at all to believe that Blaine's father will fail this time.

But he's nervous all the same.

 

_ten years ago_

 

He was seven years old the first time he realized what it was for his father to be Mr. Paik's right hand.

He knew, of course, that his father was a very important man with a very important job. That his father worked for a man named Mr. Paik, and helped him run his company; that the company made things like bulldozers and cranes and front-end loaders. He even had his own fleet of Paik construction equipment -- toys, of course, but he could put his lego men in them, and use them to push around his lego bricks, and build things. That was what Paik Heavy Industries was for. It was for building things.

Of course, Wes's father didn't build things. He worked in an office. He made phone calls. He wrote checks. He took important people out to lunch; he played golf with them, sometimes. But he did those things so that Mr. Paik could have more factories, make more bulldozers, build more things.

To that extent, Wes knew what his father did.

Then Wes turned seven. His mother threw a party and invited everyone in the neighborhood. Wes had gotten a Red Ranger costume, which he was very excited about and wore for his entire party, and a girl he didn't know who lived down the street showed up in a Green Ranger costume and decided that since she and Wes were both Power Rangers, that they should be friends. Then a boy (who Wes also didn't know -- he didn't really know any of the kids who came to that party, or most of the parties that followed, come to think of it) told the girl in the Green Ranger costume that she couldn't wear it because the Green Power Ranger was a boy. He told her that she had to be the Pink Ranger, or the Yellow Ranger, but that she couldn't be the Green Ranger. Then there was almost a fight, which Wes had to break up because it was his party and that meant it was his responsibility, and also because the girl in the Green Ranger costume was his friend and he had to defend her, so he did.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this, Wes's father took a phone call and vanished. But because of the party and the girl in the Green Ranger costume, Wes didn't even notice his father was gone.

Then the party was over, and Wes's father was still gone, and Wes noticed. And he asked his mother, and she said his father was at work, but there was something funny about the way she said it. His father had always taken Wes's birthday off work; Wes couldn't understand why he hadn't this time. But he understood how important his father's job was, so he waited for him to come home.

Five o'clock came. Wes's father didn't come home.

Six o'clock came and went, and his father didn't come home.

Seven.

Eight.

Then it was nine, time for Wes to take his costume off and go to bed. But he didn't want to go to bed without his father to tuck him in, and he cried. He didn't ask his mother to call his father home; he didn't try to stay up, either.

He just lay in his bed, and he cried.

Eventually, when it was very late and Wes had nearly cried himself to sleep, his father reappeared from wherever he'd gone to. His tie was untied, and his shirt was untucked, but he was home. And he went straight to Wes's bedroom, and he wiped away Wes's tears, and smoothed his hair, and straightened his blankets.

He had cuts on all of his knuckles. Wes can still remember it, to this day -- how some of his knuckles just had little red lines on them but one or two had deep gouges taken out, like tooth marks.

And Wes asked his father what had happened to his hands, and Wes's father said that it was just something that had happened at work.

Two days later, the girl in the Green Ranger costume really did get into a fight with someone, and when Wes pulled her away from the boy, he saw that her knuckles were all cut up, like his father's had been.

And he still didn't quite understand it, but as the years went on, with his father still taking mysterious phone calls, still disappearing for hours on end to come back with his tie untied and his shirt untucked and his knuckles bloodied, it made more and more sense to him until in the end it was like he'd always known.

Mr. Paik's right hand was the one he lashed out with.

That was what his father did for a living.

 

_November 2009_

 

There aren't a lot of mid-semester transfers at Dalton, but there are a few, here and there. Sometimes it's kids whose parents think they need a more restrictive environment, need a dress code and an honor code and a code of academic honesty and a lot of other codes because they apparently don't have any codes of their own to follow. But more often, when a boy comes to Dalton mid-semester, it's because they need someplace where other students won't beat the hell out of them.

Blaine Anderson is the latter. Wes doesn't need to be a mind-reader to know that. The still-healing cut on his forehead is a dead giveaway. The fact that he jumps every time he hears a loud noise, the way he flinches when people brush too close to him in the hallway... Those are important too, of course.

Mostly, though, it's the cut on his forehead.

Wes doesn't make a habit of reaching out to the mid-semester transfers, not really. He doesn't really reach out to anyone. It's not that he doesn't like people, because he likes most people fine. But it's... hard. He's not easily friendly to begin with -- small talk was never really his thing -- and having to deal with what his father does for a living, with all the things that he can't explain, the things that he has to lie about... It's hard. So he sticks to the Warblers, the debate team, the Young Democrats: people he has things in common with, things that he can talk about. So he never has to talk about anything else, so he never has to worry about saying something he shouldn't.

But Blaine isn't a Warbler. Blaine doesn't belong to any groups. Blaine has nothing to talk about, so he doesn't talk at all. He just keeps to himself, quiet, shy. Sometimes it seems like he's almost trying to shrink himself down, to become invisible.

Maybe it's because of the cut on his forehead; maybe it's something else. Maybe he's got secrets the way that Wes has secrets. It doesn't really matter.

Blaine is small, and wounded, and alone, and it hurts Wes to look at him.

And no one else is doing anything about it.

So he thinks of the girl in the Green Ranger costume, and then takes a deep breath and crosses the common room to where Blaine has tucked himself into a corner and is resolutely pretending that he wants to be invisible.

"Hi," he says, and Blaine doesn't look up at him.

So Wes says it again. "Hi."

This time, Blaine looks up at him, all wide, frightened eyes. "Um," he says, finally. His voice is very soft. "Hi."

Wes smiles at him, and holds out a latte. "Coffee?"

 

_January 2010_

 

One day, Wes comes home from school to find two women sitting in his living room, talking to his parents.

One of them is blonde and pretty and well put-together (although not really dressed for the cold). He doesn't recognize her at all.

But the other --

His father is Mr. Paik's right hand in the United States. And that means a lot of things. Writing checks, playing golf, eating lunch, lashing out -- it means all of these things, of course. But it also requires a certain... devotion, to the Paik family as a whole. To the point where sometimes it seems less like Mr. Paik is Wes's father's employer, and more like a sort of great-uncle, or even a grandfather. A patriarch. He sends small presents for birthdays, has occasionally called to talk to Wes's father about which schools Wes should be attending; when Wes's actual grandfather died, Mr. Paik was responsible for at least half the flower arrangements at the funeral. And Wes's family naturally returns the favor. Fresh flowers for Mrs. Paik on her birthday. Cigars for Mr. Paik on his. And, of course, gifts for Mr. Paik's daughter, Sun.

And when Sun was married to Jin-Soo Kwon, Wes's family traveled to Seoul, to attend.

And when her plane was lost over the Atlantic, Wes's father called Mr. Paik every day, to offer his services.

And when she was declared dead, Wes's family sent flowers.

The point is, Wes recognizes the second woman sitting in the living room, the one bundled in a large sweater, staring at her folded hands in her lap.

How she got to be there, of course, alive and well and sitting on his sofa -- that's the part he doesn't understand.

But. Wes is getting used to things he doesn't understand; he sees them nearly every day. What he's not used to, even after Blaine, is seeing someone who looks so small, and so alone, and so afraid.

So after he's been introduced to everyone (the blonde is named Juliet, and Wes isn't sure how he feels about her), and after Juliet has led his parents away to the kitchen to talk some more, leaving Sun behind, Wes sits on the sofa next to his "Aunt Sun." He doesn't hold her hand, but he sits close enough that their shoulders brush (it's something he's learned to do for Blaine, and it seems to help him; Wes can only hope that it will work just as well for Sun).

"I hope you speak English," he says, softly. "Because I really want us to be friends, but my Korean is terrible, so if you don't speak English, we're going to have to mime at each other."

Sun turns, looks at him, surprised. "Yes," she says, softly. "Yes, I speak English."

"Good," Wes says. "Because I'm almost as bad at mime as I am at speaking Korean, so that would've been really awkward."

Sun manages a small smile, just for him, and Wes beams back at her.

He's getting better at this.

 

_March 2010_

 

The first time Blaine's father comes to Wes's house, it's a Tuesday.

Blaine hadn't been over very much since his dad took the job at McKinley High School. Wes couldn't really blame him. After all, Blaine and his father had been separated for months now, with Blaine in Ohio and his father in Indiana. That was part of why Blaine had seemed so utterly lost, those first few weeks at Dalton; that was why he'd needed Wes so badly. But now his father was in Ohio for good, and Blaine didn't need Wes as much anymore. And then, too, Blaine had to move out of the dorms and into his new house, and Blaine's dad had to move everything else from Indiana and into the new house. And Blaine had school, and his dad had his job, and it was a busy time for him. So Blaine didn't come over very much for a while.

Wes understood why. He really did.

But that didn't mean he didn't miss Blaine, because he really did.

And apparently, Blaine missed him too, because Wes heard that Blaine was struggling with his Latin and offered to help him out, Blaine's response was to hug him.

So he comes over on a Tuesday and they sit in Wes's kitchen and do homework together. That's all it is, just the two of them at the kitchen table, Wes helping Blaine with his Latin. And at five-thirty precisely, Blaine's father rings the doorbell. And Wes walks Blaine to the door, and he meets Blaine's father for the first time.

Nothing earth-shattering, just "It's nice to meet you," and "I've heard a lot about you," and "I suppose we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."

And then Blaine and his father are gone, and Wes goes back to the kitchen to pack up his textbooks so the table is cleared in time for dinner.

That's all it is. Three minutes at the door -- a handshake and an exchange of pleasantries and something that is not quite a goodbye.

Strange how so little can become so much.

 

_August 2010_

 

The phone calls start in April.

By May, Juliet's visits have fallen into a predictable pattern.

By the time Sun's baby is born in June, the new people have started coming around.

But it's not until August that Wes finally snaps.

"Why Blaine?" Wes demands, because he has to. Because he can't keep pushing Blaine away without knowing why; because he can't -- He has to know; he has to _understand_. "Why him?"

"It isn't him," Sun says, hands still neatly folded in her lap, eyes fixed straight on him. She's so calm. Wes almost admires it, even though he thinks that right now, at least for right now, he hates her. "Not really. They want his father. But they think he'll be more docile if Blaine is with him, so they plan to take them both."

"Take them where?" Wes knows his voice is rising too much -- too high, too loud, but the calmer Sun becomes, the more hysterical it makes him. "Why -- _Who?_ Is it -- It's not --"

"Mr. Paik has nothing to do with this." Sun's face is grave, almost sad. "If he did, I could --" She shakes her head. "I could try," she says, as if correcting herself. "I could try, at least. But the man who wants Blaine's father... I don't believe there is anything that I or anyone else could say to him to change his mind. He is a very determined person."

"But -- Who is he? Why does he -- "

Sun pushes herself up from the table. "When I came here," she says, still incredibly calm. "I passed through a place called The Lamp Post. Perhaps that's where you should start."

And before Wes can think to ask another question, she is walking away, brushing past Wes's father as she exits the kitchen.

For a long few moments, Wes and his father simply stare at one another; Wes's father's expression is entirely unreadable.

Finally, he clears his throat. "Sun spent a long time there," he says. "At the Lamp Post. While they decided where she would go next. Of course, Mr. Paik wanted Sun to go back to Seoul. To be with him. But the people that brought her to the Lamp Post in the first place -- they wanted her with them. With their people. When they could not agree, Sun was sent to be with us, while the negotiations continued."

It doesn't take more than a moment for Wes to understand what his father is getting at. Mr. Paik rarely, if ever, negotiates. He bribes where he can. He lashes out where he cannot. But he always gets what he wants, when he wants it. These people who had Sun, whoever they are; these people who are even now watching her (because of course Juliet is not simply Sun's doctor) -- They haven't bested Mr. Paik, not yet. But they've kept him at a stalemate. For months now.

"We were told," Wes's father adds, "not to interfere. That if worst came to it, and these... people came to take Sun back, that we were not to put up a fight. That Mr. Paik would handle it personally. We were told it would be dangerous to get involved."

Wes takes a deep breath. "But we are involved," he says, as calmly as he can. "We were always involved. Weren't we?"

There is a slight softening of his father's expression, but only a slight one. " _He_ is dangerous," he says. "Blaine's father. He is a very dangerous man, or so I'm told. You may find that some of the things we learn about him... You may learn some things you would rather not know."

There is absolutely nothing Wes can say to that that isn't entirely obvious; he looks at his father for a while, just looks at him, and his father eventually laughs softly, shakes his head.

"All right," he says, finally. "All right. Well. I'll see what I can find out, then."

He reaches out to smooth Wes's hair, like he did when Wes was a child, and then he turns and walks away.

 

_November 2010_

 

Wes isn't sure he should be in the room right now.

He's done what he needed to do. He's brought Sun to Mr. Anderson. They're talking it over. They'll figure out a solution. There's no need for him to be involved anymore. He's done.

Except he's not, is he? Not really. As long as Sun's in his house; as long as Blaine's his friend (and he _hopes_ they can still be friends, although he wouldn't blame Blaine if he decided to change his mind, once he knows, once Wes tells him --) He's not done, not as long as he can still be helpful, somehow.

So he stays in the corner of Mr. Anderson's office, with Holly Holliday's arm around him, and watches as Sun and Mr. Anderson look at the pictures so prominently displayed on Mr. Anderson's desk.

"Look at all that hair," Sun says, smiling down at the photograph in her hands, and Mr. Anderson steps forward, peers at it over her shoulder, and smiles too.

"He never really liked it that long," he says. "But we were on a secret Island, not a lot of hairdressers around, and I had to cut his hair myself, which was always traumatic. For me, I mean, not for him. I was always so worried that I'd -- So I left it long, so it wouldn't look too uneven. It made sense at the time, anyway."

Sun gently sets the photo back down on Mr. Andersons desk, still smiling, and Wes hovers awkwardly in the corner next to Miss Holliday, trying to feel not too much like a third wheel.

"You must love him very much," Sun says, quietly.

"I do," Mr. Anderson replies, just as softly. "I really do."

"I love my daughter," Sun says. "But I love my husband, too. And Ji Yeon is safe, here, but my husband is not safe, and he is not here. And I can't just leave him. I can't."

"Of course," Mr. Anderson says; he doesn't quite reach out, but he stays where he is, hovering just behind her shoulder. "I understand."

Sun turns, looks up at him. "Do you?" she asks, and she sounds almost angry. Wes takes half a step forward, only to be blocked by Miss Holliday's grip on his shoulder. "Do you understand?"

Mr. Anderson stays exactly where he was, looking down at Sun. "I understand that you love your husband," he says, very softly. "I understand that you would do anything for him, even if it means going back. I understand that, in fact, you _have_ to go back, because some things are too important to trust to anyone else, no matter who they say they are or what they say they can do, and this is one of those things. Which is why I will do my best to make sure you do go back to the Island, even if it means you leave your daughter behind. Because if my son were on that Island, and I was here, without him? I would leave everything and everyone to go and get him back."

He glances briefly at Miss Holliday; her grip on Wes's shoulder tightens.

Sun just blinks at him.

"I may not understand everything," Mr. Anderson concedes, after a moment. "But I think I understand enough."

There's a pause, and then Sun nods, turns back to the photos on his desk. "I would like to help you," she says. "If I can. But I won't do anything to risk my husband."

Mr. Anderson nods. "I know," he says, gently. "And I won't risk my son for you. But if we can work together, to save them both. I'd certainly like to try."

 

_November 2010_

 

"And I know I should've said something..." Wes shakes his head, eyes still on his hands. He's not always great with eye contact on his best days, but he's never been so completely incapable of looking up in his entire life. The idea of Blaine looking at him, betrayed, possibly crying -- he can't do it. It's cowardly, but he just can't. "I mean, I shouldn't have... You have your reasons for not talking about your past, where you've come from, and I shouldn't have looked into it and it was a complete betrayal of your privacy and I'm sorry for that, Blaine, I really am, but I -- But when I did. I should've told you. I knew that there were people... And I knew that I would be putting you in danger, but I just --"

Blaine makes the strangest noise then; Wes almost looks up, but he still can't, quite.

"Are you laughing?" he asks, voice coming out strangled.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says, immediately, and Wes can't place at all what he sounds like -- whether he sounds upset or angry or... or what he sounds like, and he knows he should look at Blaine, knows he should try, but he can't -- "I mean, it's not funny. It's really... But I just guess it never occurred to me, you know. I just always thought that if people knew... That if anyone knew about me and my dad, they would _want_ me to go. Because it wouldn't... Because they would be in danger. I never thought anyone would worry about me. Or my dad. I never thought... It just never occurred to me that anyone would care."

His voice breaks then, and it's so much like the Blaine that Wes met, those first weeks at Dalton, the boy who flinched at everything, the boy who was so _afraid_ , and Wes has to look up then, because someone has to. Someone needs to see Blaine, instead of just passing over him like he isn't even there. And there's Blaine, not looking at Wes at all, but sort of staring off at one of the kitchen cabinets, hands folded in his lap. But he's... smiling, just a little bit.

So Wes says the least eloquent, most honest thing he can say.

" _I_ care."

Blaine blinks, startles a little bit, turns and looks up at Wes and yes, there are tears in his wide eyes but Wes sort of thinks that maybe, just maybe, Blaine isn't really that mad at him at all.

Which is not to say that he knows quite what to think when Blaine stands up, tear-filled eyes on Wes, and then just... stands, one hand on a chair, the other outstretched like he's waiting for --

"Would you just come over here already?" Blaine asks, finally, and Wes lurches awkwardly out of his chair, wraps both arms around Blaine's waist and buries his face in Blaine's shoulder and does something he hasn't done since he was seven years old and couldn't understand why his father wasn't there to tuck him in at night.

He cries.

Maybe it's because Blaine's forgiven him. Maybe it's because Blaine was alone for so long, scared for so long. Maybe it's because there's a part of Blaine that still hasn't shaken that loneliness. Maybe it's because if it hadn't been for a girl in a Green Ranger costume, Wes would have been every bit as alone as Blaine for a good 60% of his life.

Maybe it's because it's not over yet and Wes knows that.

Whatever the reason, he clings to Blaine and sobs into his shoulder, and Blaine holds him up.

 

_December 31st, 2010_

 

But maybe it was always supposed to end this way.

Nadia and Sayid are the first to arrive, to pass their coats to Wes and let him escort them to the living room, where Sun is waiting to greet them. It's a warm welcome, with smiles and embraces, and once Wes sees them settled, he goes back to the door again. Not long after, everyone else arrives in one big mob -- Kurt and his tall father and his taller stepbrother and his formidable stepmother; Blaine and his father (Blaine leaning a little less heavily on his cane, his father still in a wheelchair), Holly bringing up the rear. And Wes lets them all in, takes their coats (with help from Kurt's tall stepbrother), shows them to the living room.

Then he goes back to stand by the doorway and waits.

Almost exactly three minutes later, the doorbell rings one last time, and Wes opens the door.

Standing on his front step, looking distinctly uncomfortable, is Santana Lopez. "Please tell me we get to raid your parents' liquor cabinet," she says. "Because frankly, that's the only reason I'm here."

"You want to get drunk with your calculus teacher in the room?" Wes asks, standing aside. After a moment, Santana sighs heavily and steps into the house, letting Wes close the door behind her.

"Might as well," Santana says, both hands on her coat like she's about to unzip it. She hesitates, though, reluctant, and Wes has to hold his hand out in front of her face for at least ten seconds before she sighs again and finally unzips it. "Maybe it'd make all those weird symbols make sense. Seriously, when did math get too good for numbers?"

"I'm not having this argument with you again," Wes says, wiggling his fingers until Santana slips her arms out of her jacket and passes it over to him. She's dressed down, jeans and a hoodie; she looks young and a little scared, and somehow just having her there makes Wes feel about fifty times better. "You forgot your Power Rangers uniform," he adds.

"So did you," she says, standing there with her arms folded protectively over her chest, watching him hang her coat in the closet.

Wes hides his smile. "It's at the drycleaners," he suggests. When he turns around, Santana's just watching him, still uncomfortable, still scared, and Wes has to take a deep breath. "You know you don't have to get involved in this," he says.

Santana's eyebrow arches dangerously. "I've been involved," she points out. "Since the moment Karofksy went all Columbine and pointed a gun in my face and then his mom decided to compound the damage by giving me the breaking news from Monster Island." Then she deflates a little, arms falling to her sides. "I'm involved," she says, flatly. "I might as well see it through. Besides, don't even pretend you could handle this without me for like a second. The whole thing would just fall apart."

This time, Wes doesn't bother pretending that he's not smiling. "Probably," he says, and holds out his arm.

After a moment, Santana takes it.

They go in to the living room together like that, arm-in-arm.

(There is a moment when Mr. Anderson looks up and sees Santana walk in, a moment when the sorrow on his face is so profound that Wes almost turns around and walks Santana back out of the room. Just a moment, and then Mr. Anderson smiles and inclines his head and says "Miss Lopez," and Santana nods stiffly back and lets Wes lead her to the nearest couch.

(They're involved; they've always been involved. There's no changing it. But Wes understands if, sometimes, Mr. Anderson wishes there was.)

 

_January 5th, 2011_

 

Wes knows a little about Hugo Reyes. He knows that he's from Los Angeles, that he goes by the nickname "Hurley," that he won the lottery at age 27 and used some of the money to travel to Australia. He knows that Hurley's return flight was Oceanic 815, from Sydney to Los Angeles.

He knows that Hurley was declared dead with the rest of the Oceanic survivors. And he knows that, just like Sun, Hurley is very much alive.

But he's not entirely sure why Blaine insisted that Wes take Hurley to Dalton with him.

He does it anyway, though. After everything, he figures it's the least he could do.

Anyway, it doesn't take him long to figure it out.

"Hurley?" Walt calls, pushing his way through the crowd of students. "Hurley!"

"Walt!" Hurley spreads his arms out wide, and Walt races into them, hugs him tightly.

"Hurley," Walt says again, half muffled in Hurley's shoulder. "I missed you."

"Missed you too, little dude," Hurley says, and Wes gets it now. He really does. "Missed you too."

It's not until after they break apart, which takes kind of a long time, that Walt finally looks past Hurley, and stares straight at Wes.

They've seen each other around; Wes knows who Walt is (who Walt's father is), but they don't really talk. Wes isn't good at reaching out to people, and it's especially hard when those people's parents are trying to kidnap one of his best friends, so. Wes knew that this was going to be awkward; that's not a surprise.

What is a surprise is that Walt walks straight up to him, looks him dead in the eye, and says, "You know you're not gonna be able to turn back forever, right? If you keep going... If you keep going, you're going to have to carry it through all the way to the end."

Wes blinks.

"Dude," Hurley says. "Are you, like, talking to the Island again?"

That doesn't make any sense either, but it kind of doesn't matter. Wes gave up on these things making sense a long time ago. So he turns back to Walt and asks, "Can Blaine turn back?"

Walt just sort of looks at him for a while, and then slowly shakes his head. No.

Wes closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them again. "Then I'm not turning back either," he says.

Walt grins at him and pats him on the arm. "All right, man," he says. "All right."

 

_December 27th 2010_

 

"Well," Eloise says, her voice just audible over the whooshing of the pendulum behind her. "I suppose you'd better go fetch Juliet. It's time."

She doesn't sound particularly happy about that. Ethan feels a pang of what might be conscience. He didn't spend time with Eloise, not the way he did with Charles, the way he did with Ben. Maybe that's why he still cares about her a little bit. He doesn't know enough about her to carry any grudges. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks.

Eloise turns, raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you?" she retorts, with more of an edge than usual. Then she sighs, softens, pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "It doesn't matter what I want," she says. "If it could have been changed, it would have been. But it hasn't. So. Go and get Juliet. You have work to do. And so do I."

She gathers herself, regal as a queen, and turns to make her way upstairs.

Ethan watches her go, and then, with a sigh, he follows.

Conscience or no conscience, if this is what he needs to go to go home again, then this is what he'lll do. No matter who he has to hurt.


	14. In Portland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Juliet ever really wanted to do was to go back home again. She should have known he would find her.

_December 29th, 2010_

 

He finds her in Portland.

Of course he does.

 

_September 2010_

 

"Excuse me." The voice is soft, a little hoarse. Authoritative. A woman's voice, not a teenager's.

Ben had thought he'd met most of the faculty by now, but he'd never heard this voice before.

He hesitates with one foot on the stairs, wondering -- but it's been calm, now, for years. Either Charles has given up, or someone else has finally taken over, someone who doesn't care about Ben and his son. And this is a school with a high faculty turnover rate; people come and go all the time. There's no reason for him to --

He turns, and there on the steps below him is a woman; blonde, stunning, and no, Ben has never met her before. A woman like that, he would remember.

If Charles really did send her, he's certainly upped his standards.

She smiles at him. "Can I ask you a question? I'm new here."

"Well, you can certainly ask," he says, smiling back at him, "but I can't promise you an answer. I've only been here a few months myself. But I'll try my best, anyway." He holds his hand out and she takes it -- dry rough fingers, strong grip. "Benjamin Anderson," he says. "Math department."

Her smile widens. "Juliet Burke," she says. "I'm the school nurse."

 

_January 3rd, 2011_

 

"So how's Carl?" he asks, leaning against the door of Emma's office.

He asks this because he is moving on. He is moving on because it's a new year and it seems right to do this, to make this kind of a resolution. Emma has Carl and Will is going to learn to be single (possibly with some help from Holly, although she seems pretty taken with Ben Anderson lately, which maybe seems a bit of an odd match but love has its own ways of doing things and Will is not going to question that, not anymore). But Emma is still his friend, and he cares for her, and so he will ask questions about her love life from time to time, because he cares.

Not because he's jealous. Because he cares.

Emma just shrugs and goes back to scrubbing the dust off her desk. "Fine, I guess," she says. "I mean, not that we've -- He was with his family, of course, for most of the holiday, and I was here with mine, and... And that's it, really. And it's fine. It's okay, and it's fine."

"Oh... Kay," he says, after a moment. He's never quite known what to say when Emma gets like this, when she gets all twitchy and her sentences get short, clipped. Carl almost seemed to enjoy it, or at least he did the few times Will saw them together. Will always thought that was weird. "Look, I know it's none of my business, but if you two are having problems, you can always talk to --"

"Oh no," Emma says, straightening up and almost... glaring, really, the scrub in her blue-gloved hands like a weapon. "Oh no no no, we are not having problems. _We_ are not having problems at all. _Carl_ is having problems, problems with me doing my job to the best of my ability, and even if that means sometimes I have to take my work home with me, even if that means sometimes I can't be at his beck and call, or can't go out of state on a moment's notice, or visit his parents, or --"

It clicks, then. "Is that why you couldn't come to help decorate Mr. Anderson's room with us?" Will asks, and the hand holding the scrub falls to her side, defeated. "I was wondering -- I mean, usually you like the hospital. Everything's nice and sterile."

"Actually, hospitals are a hotbed of MRSA and Hepatitis," Emma says, sinking into her chair. "Although I do like the easy access to hand sanitizer." She drops the scrub on her desk, peels off her gloves with a defeated sigh. "I should've been there, Will, really -- I _wanted_ to be there, but then Carl pulls out these plane tickets two days before Christmas and when I told him maybe a little warning would be nice he started in about how he was trying to help me, so I could live spontaneously and spontaneity is one thing but with Ben in the hospital and poor Blaine and you know how sad Finn's been lately and even Santana's acting a bit off... And Brittany... And Artie, definitely Artie --"

Will realizes, belatedly, that he has no idea what she's talking about. God, has his personal life got him so distracted that he's missing everything that goes on with his kids these days? But it's probably not the right time to ask Emma for help about that (definitely not), so he nods and says, "It's been a rough year." Then he thinks about it, and adds, "Well, it was a rough year. But it's a new year now, and a fresh start for all of us, and --"

Emma's face breaks into a small smile, and Will is already congratulating himself when he realizes that she's not looking at him at all. "She's back," she says, softly.

"She -- Who?" he asks, even as he's turning. But then he sees someone making their way towards the nurse's office, a blonde woman, really attractive. It takes a moment more for him to recognize her. "Is that -- That's the nurse, isn't it? Not the part-timer... the old one. Juliet."

"She's back," Emma says again, her smile widening. "Oh good. Ben is going to be so relieved."

Did Juliet and Ben have a thing? Will can't remember. He really needs to pay better attention to these things. "I bet he will," he murmurs.

Holly might not be relieved, of course. Holly might not be relieved at all.

Not that it's any of Will's business, of course, not that he _cares_ \-- well, especially not now that Emma and Carl are having problems, because if they are, then obviously --

But he is not thinking like this anymore -- he's not like one of the kids; they can spend all their time thinking about who they're dating and who they want to be dating and who they should be dating or who should be dating them -- he is an adult, and he has more important things to think about.

Like figuring out whether or not Ben and Juliet actually had a thing.

"Well," he says, and smiles back at Emma. "We should go say hello, don't you think?"

 

_December 2009_

 

"You're sure," Ethan says; it's not really a question, but Juliet answers as though it is anyway.

"Positive," she tells him, and Ethan turns away, arms folded, and stares at the wall. It's blank -- no knick-knacks, no pictures. No shelves. Empty. Just like him. "The only reason Claire survived is because she conceived long before she ever arrived on the Island. Sun got pregnant _here_. On the Island. And that means she's gonna die. Just like every other pregnant woman on this Island."

_Just like Carolyn_. But Juliet doesn't say it. She doesn't have to.

Ethan just stares at his blank wall.

"There nothing I can do to save her, Ethan." Juliet keeps pushing, testing. "If you want her to survive -- if _Jacob_ wants her to survive --"

"I'm thinking," Ethan snaps. He breathes in -- breathes out in a harsh sigh, uncrosses his arms and steeples his hands in front of his face.

"She didn't know the risks," Juliet reminds him. He's close now, close. She only has to push a little harder. "Everyone else --" And again, she's careful not to mention _Carolyn_ "-- at least they knew what could happen. But Sun had no idea. She could never have --"

"I know that." Ethan's voice is flat. Hard. "I know that. You don't need to remind me."

He's furious; Juliet can tell. Which means she's winning.

Finally, Ethan sighs again. "All right," he says, turning around. "All right. I'll have Richard contact Mr. Paik. We'll make arrangements to take her off-Island. _Temporarily._ Once the baby's born, she comes back." He watches her for a moment, then adds, pointedly, "And you, Juliet, are going to make sure she does."

Juliet smiles. "Of course," she says, soft and agreeable, and if Ethan isn't fooled, it doesn't matter. "Of course. I just want to make sure the baby's okay."

And it's the truth, really. Her priority is saving Sun and the baby. Anything else is on the back burner.

For now.

 

_September 2010_

 

"Where are you from?" she asks, sitting across from him at one of the tables in the faculty lounge. "I mean, before Indiana. Originally. Where are you from?"

"Portland," he says, and a flicker of wry amusement passes across her face. There and gone in a matter of moments, but not too fast for him to see. "Sorry, is that funny?"

Juliet just shakes her head. "Sorry," she says. "It's nothing, really. I... I had a job offer, before this. Really good one, exactly what I wanted to be doing. And they told me that it was in Portland."

She says it like it's meant to be significant; probably it is, except Ben doesn't know enough about her to know why. "Oh?" he says, prompting.

"It was..." Another shake of the head. "The first thing I found out was that it wasn't in Portland. The second thing I found out was that everything else they'd told me was a lie, too. Needless to say, that job didn't work out. So now I'm here."

"Now you're here," Ben echoes.

"Anyway." Juliet picks at her salad with her fork. "I was just... thinking, I guess. If the job had been as advertised, in Portland. We could've met under different circumstances."

It's an odd thing to say; Ben files it away for later. "Probably not," he says, a little too abrupt, and Juliet blinks at him. "Blaine and I left Portland almost as soon as I had my degree, which was some time ago. We've been wandering ever since. But that's life without tenure, I guess."

"Hmm," Juliet says, and smiles at him. "Well. And now you're here."

Ben returns her smile; she seems to have that effect on him, really. "And now I'm here."

The obvious thing to say, of course, would be that _she_ , too, is here. Ben doesn't say obvious things very often. For whatever reason, he doesn't feel this is the best time to start.

"So," he says, instead. "Are you planning on attending the pep rally this afternoon? Because you might want to pack a poncho if you do -- I've heard the glee club is performing, and that never ends well."

And she laughs, and the moment moves on, and if Ben regrets not saying the obvious thing... Well.

He doesn't linger on regret much, either. There's too much else to do.

 

_January 3rd, 2011_

 

She doesn't grab the handlebars of Ben's wheelchair.

She wants to, for reasons she probably shouldn't think about too hard, but she's started to realize how much it chafes for him to be pushed around, to not be in control, so she doesn't grab the handlebars of Ben's wheelchair. She follows a few steps behind him and keeps her eyes on Juliet the entire time.

Juliet, who obviously has some kind of shame after all, just stares at the floor and doesn't acknowledge either of them. As they approach her, as they pass, she keeps her eyes on the floor and doesn't look up once.

"Breathe, Holly," Ben murmurs, when Juliet is finally out of earshot. Unless, of course, she's not, and Holly almost turns to check, but Ben says, "No, keep walking." And then he says, "Breathe," again.

It's probably supposed to be reassuring that he's so calm. Mostly it just makes Holly want to scream.

"This isn't about the jealousy thing," Ben adds after a moment, and he's joking. He's actually joking, and Holly almost wants to grab his wheelchair just for spite, but she doesn't. "Is it?"

"No," Holly says, more tersely than she means to. "No, of course -- I mean, maybe. A little. Slightly."

Ben chuckles at that, actually laughs out loud and why does she like this guy again? She's having a hard time remembering. "Have a little faith, Holly."

"In you? Or in the plan?"

Another laugh and God, he is so frustrating sometimes Holly can hardly stand it. "Both, of course," Ben says.

Holly thinks about replying, doesn't. Which, apparently, is the most conspicuous thing she could have done, because the quiet has barely had a chance to stretch out before Ben is sighing, stopping his chair, and turning rather clumsily to face her.

"Holly," he says, soft and very serious, and Holly has a brief moment of panic where she doesn't know what to do with her hands. At first she wants them on her hips, because she's pissed, but then she sort of wants to fold them over her chest, because she's pissed but she's also kind of... maybe, a little bit, scared. And then she has to drop them to her sides because Ben just keeps looking at her with those eyes of his and she's mad and she's scared and she doesn't know what to do and she knows he knows that but she also knows that he still trusts her and -- "Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do," she says, without hesitation.

"Then trust me. This is good. This is... This is exactly what we wanted. All right?"

This is not what Holly wanted. What Holly wanted was for Ethan Goodspeed and Charles Widmore and the Island and everything on it to turn into smoke and waft away so she could just sort of... figure her life out with this job she's sort of been stuck in and this guy she didn't expect to like and this town she never thought she'd stay in for more than a month. Except she kind of always knew that was never really going to happen.

"All right," Holly says. "If you say so."

Ben rewards her with a quick smile before he turns his chair around again (Holly wants to help him; doesn't), and starts wheeling his way towards the calculus classroom. "Of course," he says, his voice trailing back to her, "if she is here, that means someone's going to have to keep an eye on her."

Holly takes a deep breath and tries to keep her voice steady -- if it comes out less steady and more grim, then... Well, she has her reasons. "I thought you'd never ask."

 

_April 2010_

 

What bothers her, more than anything, is what this says about how thorough the surveillance is. She'd thought -- hoped -- that maybe, after Sun's baby was born, after her work was done, there might be a moment or two, the smallest of small windows where she could slip out from underneath Ethan's control. Just a few minutes that she could use to escape, and be gone.

She couldn't go back to her sister -- obviously, that'd be the first place they would look. But she could go somewhere else. Portland, maybe. She could start over.

She hadn't realized just how hard it would be to find that single second she could break away in.

But then, she hadn't realized that there was someone standing outside Sun's house, taking pictures every time someone entered or exited.

She wonders who's been standing outside her apartment, taking pictures of her.

"So tell me," she says, trying to keep all of that out of her voice; Ethan doesn't need to know that she ever thought of getting away. Doesn't need to know that she's still considering it. "What is it, exactly, that makes Benjamin Linus so important?"

 

_October 2010_

 

Burt Hummel has a heart attack, and Ben doesn't get a wink of sleep that night. He doesn't sleep that night, he barely eats breakfast in the morning, and at lunchtime, he finds himself in the break room staring at a tray of grocery store sushi that no longer looks the slightest bit palatable.

He isn't sure why it bothers him so much. Kurt Hummel isn't his student; it wasn't _his_ class that got interrupted; he wasn't the one teaching when Emma had to come in, had to pull Kurt out into the hallway, to tell him --

As a teacher, this doesn't affect him.

But he isn't just a teacher; he's a father. And _that_ is why this is getting to him so much. Because he knows a little about Kurt Hummel; not much, but enough, and he knows that Kurt only has his father. He has no one else.

In that, at least, he's not so different from Blaine.

And that's what's bothering him. It's the idea of someone walking into his son's classroom at Dalton, looking at him, not knowing what to say. It's the idea of his son sitting by his bedside in tears. It's knowing that after ten long years trying to find some place to rest their heads, it could all be torn away by some mishap, some misfiring of the beats of his heart, and he could be... gone. He's been so careful with every other aspect of his life -- it seems ridiculous that he somehow could have been so careless with this. And yet.

"Penny for 'em," Juliet says, sliding into the seat across from him, and Ben shakes his head, comes back to himself.

"Just thinking," he says, and Juliet raises an eyebrow at him. "About how long it's been since I went to have a checkup."

"Hmm." Juliet nods, apparently unsurprised, and pops open the lid of her salad. "Probably about time you had one, then."

She's not looking at him; it's impossible for him to read her face. For some reason, he's always enjoyed that about her. "I suppose so," he says.

Juliet tears open her packet of dressing. "Oh, and while you're at it, you should have them look at your back," she says, and Ben can do nothing but blink at her. She glances up at him, smiles. "Did you really think I hadn't noticed? It's probably just from standing so much, and God knows these chairs aren't great, but. As long as you're ruling out any unforeseen heart conditions, you might as well make sure you don't have a ruptured disk or anything."

"Well." It shouldn't please him so much, to know that she's noticed. But it does. "I'll set up an appointment first thing, then."

Juliet finally looks at him, smiles. "Good," she says. "That's good."

 

_January 3rd, 2011_

 

Blaine doesn't want to eat lunch in the cafeteria, and Kurt can't really find it in himself to blame him. It's been a long day. It's been a long _year_ , and they're only three days in. But that awkward New Year's Eve party (Santana sitting, eating crudites with one hand and holding tight to Wes -- of all people, Warbler Wes -- with the other), and all the talking, and all of the planning, and now Nurse Juliet (who is not a nurse) is back at the school, and...

He supposes that means it'll all be over soon, at least.

It should be a comforting thought. It sort of is, because he does trust Blaine's father and he trusts his own father, and he believes if anyone can stop anything bad from happening, it's them.

If anyone can stop it.

He is working very, very hard to not think about what happens if it just can't be stopped.

So, under the circumstances, he maybe would sort of rather be sitting in the cafeteria watching Puck throw grapes into Sam's mouth while Quinn raises her eyebrows and Mercedes shakes her head and Tina makes quiet comments in Mike's ear that make him snicker.

But then again, it's just as likely that he'd just be sitting there, watching them, hating the fact that they can be so careless when his carefully-ordered world has just about shaken itself apart. And Blaine's been worked up ever since he heard about Juliet coming back, and he needs a break from having to act normal around complete strangers, so. Kurt takes him to the choir room instead, so they can talk it over.

"It's funny," Blaine says, limping along at his side. He's walking better, lately, leaning on his cane but not as heavily. Kurt doesn't want to think about how that could be useful, doesn't want to think about what would happen if Blaine had to run, if he had to fight --

It occurs to him, probably far too late, that this is exactly what Blaine's life has been for at least a decade, if not more. All these things he's had to push aside, just so he can go through his day, just so he can keep moving forward. And, yeah, if Blaine wants to hide for a while, Kurt's going to let him.

"I remember when I saw Juliet and my dad together -- it was just the one time, after Karofsky --" Blaine glances sidelong at Kurt, bites his lip. His cane thumps softly on the floor for a few steps. "Anyway. When I came to help you with Karofsky, I went to say hello to my dad, and she came in, and I remember..." Another sidelong look, and then he shrugs. "I'd seen my dad be... Um. I'd seen him _interested_ in people before, not very often, but sometimes, and I -- It didn't make me uncomfortable, really. And Holly doesn't make me uncomfortable, now. But Juliet... It wasn't the way he looked at her. It... It was the way she looked back. Or... Or didn't look back. Or something. I think... And of course now. I mean, it's obvious that she was using him, and I just --"

"Yeah," Kurt says, softly, because he's never been through any of this, obviously, but he's pretty sure that if he ever _did_ go through any of it, it would end with him doing something definitely criminal and probably completely unforgivable.

Which, come to think of it, they could probably get Santana to do for them, since she's not Juliet's biggest fan, and maybe --

But he probably shouldn't suggest that, or at least not out in the hallway, so he leads Blaine a few steps further to the choir room door, opens it, lets Blaine through.

Blaine takes two steps in and stops. Waiting, probably. Kurt follows him in, reaches out to flick the light switch and there, sitting on the very top row of the risers, is Brittany.

And she doesn't look... right.

"Brittany?" Kurt asks, and steps out in front of Blaine, shielding him even though he really shouldn't feel like he needs to do so, really shouldn't feel like Brittany is a threat to anyone -- "Are you okay? Are you -- Are you on antibiotics again? Because Miss P said we should've taken you to the hospital to have your stomach pumped the last time, and that if you ever did it again, we need to --"

Then Brittany straightens up, shakes her head, ponytail bobbing, and Kurt's too far away to really see, but he's pretty sure her eyes have cleared up. "Kurt!" she says, sounding delighted. "Kurt, you're here! I've been looking for you forever."

Kurt looks at Blaine; Blaine looks back at Kurt. "You were... looking for him in the choir room?" Blaine asks, sounding puzzled. "Because that really shouldn't take that long, so..."

Brittany pushes up to her feet, strangely wobbly. "I forgot you were in California," she says, stumbling down the risers towards them, and Kurt blinks.

"I was in French class, actually," he says. "Brittany, are you sure you're not on something, or feverish, or --"

"Or I never knew," Brittany finishes; when she makes the step off the last riser, she stumbles and almost falls.

When Kurt lurches forward, Blaine does too, his cane striking the floor so hard it almost skids out from under him and Kurt has to catch him by the arm, still reaching out to Brittany with the other hand.

But Brittany catches herself, pulls herself upright, straight and tall. "It's hard to say." Kurt doesn't understand how she can just keep... talking, so calmly. "Your face was different then, but I guess most people's are, in the past. Daniel's isn't. That's what I like about Daniel. No matter when I am, his face is always the same."

She makes it halfway to the choir room door before she has to stop, swaying slightly. Then she raises one hand to her nose and it comes away bloody.

This time, Blaine lets Kurt take the lead, hurrying forward while Blaine hobbles along behind. "Brittany," Kurt gasps, taking her by the arms and holding her steady. "Brittany, your nose --"

"It's okay," Blaine says, catching up. He pulls a small packet of tissues out of the front pocket of his bag, grabs a few, holds them out. When Brittany doesn't move to take them, he just holds them to her nose for her. "It's going to be fine, Brittany, it --"

"Should we take her to --" Kurt catches himself just before he can say "the nurse," because obviously, _no_. "Um. We could take her to... Miss P? Or Mr. Schue, or your dad, or --"

Brittany lays a hand on his cheek. "It's okay," she says, voice muffled and nasal from Blaine pinching at her nose. "It's fine now. I've figured it out. It's going to be fine." She smiles, a little hazily, and wraps her arm around him. "I just need to sit down with you for a while and everything will be fine."

Kurt looks at Blaine. Blaine looks at Kurt.

"I used to get nosebleeds all the time," Brittany adds. "It's fine. I just need to sit down with you for a while."

"It's pretty dry in here," Blaine says; he doesn't totally sound like he believes it, but he's trying to. One more thing he can't let himself think about. Kurt almost wishes he didn't understand, but he does. "Maybe it's just..."

"Okay," Kurt says, letting the word out on a sigh. "Okay. Let's ... Um..."

He looks at the tissues in Blaine's hands, looks at his own hands clutching at Brittany's arms, at Brittany's hands fidgeting restlessly in front of her.

Blaine smiles at him, leaving his hand where it is. There's a clatter as his cane hits the floor, and then Blaine wraps an arm around Brittany's waist, and the three of them make their way slowly back towards the risers.

 

_October 2010_

 

"A tumor," Jill says, and for some reason, the way she says it sends a pang of disgust through Juliet. "Interesting. That's very interesting. I'll let Ethan know."

"Just out of curiosity," Juliet says, keeping her tone civil, keeping it servile, the way she's gotten so good at over the years. "Why haven't I heard from Ethan himself? Why hasn't he --"

"Because he's busy," Jill snaps -- too fast, too defensive. "He has things to do. We _all_ do, Juliet. When he needs to talk to you, then he will."

Juliet smiles, even though Jill can't see her from the other end of the phone. "It was an innocent question, Jill," she says, through gritted teeth.

Jill lets out a huff of breath. "I'm sorry," she says, after a moment. "I'm sorry. There's been... It's been hectic, lately. But this is... This is a positive development. This is good. I'll let Ethan know."

"When he's not busy," Juliet agrees, and the silence that greets her when she says it is music to her ears. "And tell him I'll look forward to hearing from him."

Then she hangs up the phone, and wonders if, maybe, she might get her escape route after all. If she might, finally, be freed.

 

_October 2010_

 

"You haven't told him, have you."

Ben raises his eyebrows at Juliet. "Not that I don't appreciate the advice, Juliet," he says, working to keep the strain out of his voice. He's still faintly rattled; there's something about seeing Juliet so close to his son. He doesn't know what it is -- ten years' worth of hard experience, probably -- but seeing the two of them together was deeply disquieting. "But I'm not burdening my son with speculation and theories when I don't actually know what's wrong. I've told him there's problems with my back; I've told him that I'm seeing a doctor. And that's all he needs to know right now."

Juliet rolls her eyes and turns away. "Honestly. You're two of a kind, you know that?"

"Excuse me?" Ben asks, and this time he doesn't bother trying not to sound sharp. Whatever she's implying --

"You and your son," Juliet says, without turning around. "You're so busy trying to protect each other from the truth that you never talk to each other. You've got a tumor on your spine, Ben. It's almost certainly going to require surgery, which means you're going to have to tell your son sooner or later, but instead you just keep dealing in half-truths. And obviously your son's following right in your footsteps, because if he'd told you why he was really here, Ben, you would never have let him walk out of that office just now."

Ben's blood runs cold; he takes a deep breath and stands, leaning on his desk for support. "And just why is he really here, Juliet?" he asks, very softly.

For just a moment, Juliet looks like she's afraid of him; just a moment, and then it passes. "He's here," Juliet says, "for David Karofsky."

 

_January 3rd, 2011_

 

She's not entirely surprised to see Ben wheeling himself into the nurse's office.

She's not exactly happy, but she's not surprised, either.

"So," Ben says, folding his hands in his lap, gazing up at her with those wide blue eyes. "Did you take care of that family emergency you were having?"

"Not really." She musters up a smile for him; he doesn't return it. "How's your back?"

"Never better." He smiles then, a ghost-like flicker of a thing, there and gone in the blink of an eye.

For some reason, that smile is the thing that breaks her resolve. "Ben,"she says, stepping out from around her desk, just barely able to keep herself from reaching out. "I --"

"You know what the hell of it is," he says. "If you had just been straight with me from the beginning, Juliet? I could have helped you. Or at least I could have tried. And instead, here we are. And I don't know if there's anything... I don't know if I can do anything for you now. And I wish... I wish you had trusted me. The way I trusted you."

"I'm so sorry," she says, and takes a step back, leans against her desk. "I am so sorry, Ben."

"Well," Ben says, with terrible finality. "I am too."

Then he turns and wheels out of the room without a backward glance.

 

_December 29th, 2010_

 

He finds her in Portland.

Of course he does.

She hasn't been there very long; just about two weeks, not very long at all. Which, really, is the longest she's stayed in any one place since she left Ohio. She started off in Florida, of course, in a car outside her sister's house, watching, wishing, dreaming. Wondering if she could ever go home. Then she ditched the car, waited for Sayid to find it, waited for Jill to call him off her scent. Got on a bus to wherever it was headed, wound up in Fort Wayne. Then it was east for a while, to New Paltz. Omaha, Galveston, Sedona -- a brief, daring trip all the way out to California.

And then, finally, Portland.

She hadn't meant to stay, not really, but she'd gotten distracted. By the places she could've lived, by the life she could've had -- if Mittelos Bio-Science had been as advertised, if Ben were really just a math teacher, if the Island wasn't haunting them with every step they took. She'd lingered. She'd took her time.

Probably he would've found her anyway, sooner or later. Anywhere she'd gone, anywhere in the world, he would've found her.

But he doesn't find her anywhere in the world. He finds her in Portland. In a thrift shop, holding a clumsily carved wooden doll in her hands. There are two faint black dots on it, a fractured curve -- eyes, a smile. Brown-painted hair, a blue paint dress. Something a child made with more love than skill.

She thinks, briefly, about holding on to it as some kind of totem -- innocence lost, maybe.

Then she sets it carefully back on its shelf.

"So," she says, and doesn't turn around. She doesn't need to; she knows he's there, caging her in. Too close for her to get away. "Now what?"

 

_December 2010_

 

"That's from her," Holly says. "Isn't it?"

It shouldn't hurt, but it does. It hurts because Juliet would've noticed the piece of paper, too; would've noticed and probably would've said something about it, but it would've been... different, the way she said it. Less direct, more... evasive. Her voice wouldn't have dropped with the same concern. She would've said something glib, something joking, something that would've left Ben just enough room to cover himself. Holly doesn't give him that room -- whether it's because she can't or because she won't is something Ben has yet to figure out, but either way. Either way.

He wonders if it hurts because he misses it, misses her.

He wonders if it hurts because he'd wanted _this_ instead and just never knew it.

"It's exactly what she told Figgins," Ben says, and doesn't have to work to keep his voice level. It's been a long day, a tiring one, and he doesn't really have much energy for grief. "That there was a family emergency, and that she's very sorry, but she had to leave, and she doesn't know when she'll be back." Then he sighs. "Honestly, I don't know why I'm surprised. It's not like Juliet ever had any reason to tell me the truth. I'm just... someone who happened to be of use to her, for a little while."

And what hurts, he thinks, is not that he believed otherwise. Because he doesn't think he did, not really. He thinks he always knew, somewhere, that he meant nothing at all to her.

But that's not what hurts.

What hurts is that, in the end, he was willing to accept that. That in the end, it would have been enough.

Holly reaches out, unexpectedly, and covers his clasped hands with her own, and Ben...

Freezes.

_Oh._

And just like that, it doesn't hurt quite so much.

 

_January 3rd, 2011_

 

He isn't really that angry at Juliet.

He was, for a while. When he found out who she worked for and what she'd been doing and why she'd been so willing to reach out to him, to be his friend... And for a few days after, right up until the moment that Holly laid her hand over his and the world spun briefly off its axis, resettled into its proper alignment. But even then, he'd been too busy to really be angry.

And now, of course, he couldn't care less.

But it's important that she's reminded of what she did to him. How she betrayed him. It's important that she has doubts. Because when Ethan calls for her, when he needs her? Ben wants her to hesitate. Not to turn, necessarily. Just to... question. Just for a moment.

Holly will take care of the rest.

Really, it's all going according to plan. Right down to the cluster of people waiting for him outside his office as he approaches.

"Hello Rachel," he says, wheeling up to them; Rachel gives him a tentative smile in return. "Mr. St. James, always a pleasure."

Jesse St. James doesn't quite smile back, but then he looks a little worse for wear. Of course, he's had rather a long drive.

Then Ben pushes himself back a little bit, looks up the man standing behind Rachel and Jesse, like he's attempting to hide behind them. "And you must be Hugo," Ben says, and smiles.

"Um." Hugo shuffles from foot to foot, looks around, looks back at Ben. "Yeah. I mean, I guess I... Yeah. I am."

"It's nice to finally make your acquaintance," Ben says. He lets the three of them stand there and fidget just a moment longer before abruptly wheeling past them. Holly will have gotten his things for him, of course, and Blaine and Kurt will be waiting at the car; no need to dawdle any longer. "Well," he says, over his shoulder. "Shall we?"

Really, it's all going according to plan.

 

_December 29th, 2010_

 

"So," she says, and doesn't turn around. She doesn't need to; she knows he's there, caging her in. Too close for her to get away. "Now what?"

"Now we finish what we've started," he says.

When Juliet finally does turn, Ethan is smiling at her. Of course he is. "Ben knows who I am by now," she says. "He's going to know I'm there for him. He's not going to --"

"Oh, you're not going back for Ben," Ethann tells her, his smile widening. "No, I'll take care of him. Don't worry about that. I need you... Well, I don't need you, really. I don't need you at all."

"Then why come back for me?" she asks. And that, really, is the question she should've asked first. "Why couldn't you just let me go?"

"Because your students need you, Juliet." Ethan claps one hand on her shoulder, tugging just slightly, and Juliet lets him start pushing her towards the door, leaving the doll on the shelf behind them. "Well. One of them does. Or she will, anyway. Soon."

"She?" Juliet asks. She'd thought that -- she was sure that --

"She," Ethan says, and laughs. "Come on. We'll go get a cup of coffee, and I'll explain everything."


	15. Go Ask Alice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All roads lead to Lima, Ohio. Ana's road has had more turns than most.

She sees him for the first time right before They come.

 

_January 3rd, 2011_

 

"So what do we do?" she asks; Michael turns and glances at her, just for a second, then turns his attention back to the road. Which is probably for the best, with the way it's snowing. All that white stuff. Ana's not used to this; she doesn't like it. "When we get to Ohio," she continues, when Michael doesn't answer her. "Then what?"

"Check in with Ben," Michael says. "See what's going on. If Ethan's showed his ugly face yet. And if he hasn't --" Michael shrugs. "Then we wait."

"Yeah, well, what if no one sees him? What if --" She spreads her hands as best she can in the cramped space of the car. "What if he just... sneaks up on them? What then?"

Michael just laughs and shakes his head. "Ana," he says. "This is Ohio. Trust me, if Ethan shows up anywhere in town in the middle of the day, he's gonna get noticed. And Ben's got that town wired. Plus he's got Sayid now, and Sun, _plus_ \--"

And maybe it's the doubt that makes Ana ask -- "So what does he need us for?"

Michael just smiles at her.

"I'm serious," Ana says. "I mean, he's so good at this, he's got Sayid, he's got everyone on his side -- why does he need us?"

"You want to go back to the Hotel California?" Michael asks her, eyebrow raised. "Hang out with Widmore's mercenaries all day, waiting for someone to finally let you go home, finally let you see your family again, see your mother --"

"Shut up," Ana says, and slumps into her seat, and scowls out the window. It's all she can say, really. Anything else...

Anything else would force her to take a side and she's not ready for that. Not yet.

 

_on the Island_

 

"We're really not bad people, Ana."

This is Ethan's line, over and over again. After they take Michael off to God knows where, after Libby and Bernard get sent away, after Jin's wife comes for him, after Sawyer finally works his way free. When it's just Ana and the polar bear cages and Ethan on the outside -- sometimes pacing, sometimes crouching in the dirt in front of her, and always talking, talking, talking. She tries electrocuting him; she tries stealing a gun so she can shoot him; she tries pretty much everything she can think of and none of it works. She can't kill him, she can't escape, and she can't get him to shut up.

"I know that you're suspicious," Ethan says. "And I'm not going to pretend you don't have your reasons, because I appreciate that you do. After what happened with... what's his name, oh -- Jason, wasn't it? After what happened to your --"

It's the fifth time he's brought up the shooting. The first two times, she lashed out. The third time, she pretended to be indifferent, which worked for about ten seconds, right up until he asked her whether she'd ever told her mother she was pregnant and Ana had to rush at the bars just to push him back because he was getting a little too close.

The fourth time, she cried, cried and actually begged him to stop and he almost looked ashamed, for a second.

This time, she looks up at him from her spot on the dirt floor on the cage and asks, "Why the hell do you care?"

And Ethan stops, and looks at her, and says, "Because you're not the list, Ana."

"What?" It's not the first time she's heard about the lists -- no one's mentioned them to her, specifically, but she hears them talking about the lists, Jacob's lists. She pretends not to listen, but she does, always.

"You're not on the list," Ethan says again, and rises up from his crouch and stands, pressed against the bars of Ana's cage, clinging to them with both hands. "You're not on the list, and you should be, and I want Jacob to see what you are, what you could be, if you worked with us. If you trusted us. I want him to see --"

"Why?" Ana picks herself up off the floor, makes her way to where Ethan is standing, so close. She could grab him. She could hurt him. She could do anything. Instead, she puts her hands on the bars just inches from his and asks, again, "Why do you care so much about _me_?"

"Because," Ethan says, right in her face, so close it's practically a kiss. "You're better than he thinks you are, and I want to prove it. I want him to believe in you."

But it's not her. This close to Ethan, she can see it so damn clear. Ethan's not trying to prove that Ana is worthy; he's trying to prove that _he_ is worthy. That he's better than this Jacob thinks he is.

Ana doesn't have a whole lot of sympathy for Ethan, not really. There's too much blood under the bridge for that. But she can use this, maybe. The fact that he's using her to try to prove something; she can use that.

She backs up abruptly, turns around, and sticks her hands out through the bars of the cage.

"Put the cuffs on me," she says. "I'm ready to get out of this cage."

 

_November 2010_

 

"You say you saw someone?" Widmore asks her, pacing by the windows, hands folded behind his back. "At the docks, someone was watching you."

"His name's Michael." Ana says, arms folded, watching Widmore pace. She doesn't know if she trusts him; she doesn't know who to trust, anymore. But right now, he's pulling the strings, and Ana's not too stupid to know when it's her job to dance. "He was one of the survivors of Oceanic 815. Ethan sent him here."

Widmore doesn't quite look at her; he stops, stands profile. Pretentious ass. "And why," he asks, "would Ethan do that?"

 

_on the Island_

 

Locke doesn't like her. It's not hard for Ana to figure out why. Whether she likes it or not, she's Ethan's. She's not on the list, not one of the _good_ ones, and she was never supposed to be here. Ethan should've let her go, or killed her, or... Or whatever. But he didn't.

Instead, he brought her back to the cozy mustard-colored bungalows of New Otherton, their weird Stepford village in the middle of the freaking jungle, gave her a bungalow of her very own and started introducing her around like she _belonged_ here.

(Some of them, she didn't need introducing to. Emma and Zach... Emma and Zach she introduced herself to, when she hauled Emma out of the ocean, Zach trailing along behind, that teddy bear dangling from his hands. When she forced the water out of Emma's lungs and breathed air into them instead; when she promised she would take them home to their mother. She introduced herself after the plane crash, and they remembered her, and they came running, and she sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around them and held them close.)

Locke's not the only one who doesn't like her. That Richard guy with the eyeliner was pretty squirrely around her at first, asking Ethan was he sure, and what about the lists, and -- But he was always polite to Ana, at least, and he's been here a long time. Longer than Locke, anyway.

But. No convert like a new convert, and that's what Locke is. Some boring white guy with a boring white guy life who crash-landed on the Island and has decided to go native. With his whole two weeks of experience telling him that he knows everything about everything, and that he's going to teach everyone. Fix everyone. Make everything work all right. He's the Great White Savior, and he wants to be treated as such.

Except Ethan's not embracing him and he's not sure why and it pisses him off and now, after everything, Ethan's chosen Ana in spite of Locke, in spite of Jacob, in spite of everything.

It's not that Locke doesn't like Ana, not really.

He fucking _hates_ her.

Not that Ana really cares.

And she's definitely not going to let Locke keep her from tagging along on Ethan's little mission to the Flame Station. If that's their contact with the outside world, then she wants to see it. To learn it.

And if she learns a few other things while she's there; well, that's no one's business but hers.

"It's not as easy as just sending someone to collect him," Ethan says, voice tight, but patient. The dude with the eyepatch keeps looking up at him uneasily; the other guy, Sayid, is pretty much ignoring them. "Charles Widmore wasted seven years trying to bring Benjamin and his son back to the Island. Sent dozens of our best to drag him back home and out of all of those people? One actually came back alive. The rest..." Ethan waves his hands, irritably. "I'm not interested in sending more people out to be slaughtered. Not now that --"

And then he catches himself, and falls short, and stops.

Huh.

"But the fact that we've found him now." Locke almost sounds pleading. "You don't really believe that it's just a coincidence, do you? Living where you do, seeing the things you've seen; you _can't_ just --"

Ana tunes them out for a moment, goes back to the image frozen on the screen. The man at the door, hand outstretched, little round glasses perched on his beaky nose, hair sticking straight up off his high forehead. He doesn't look like a mass-murderer, but. People do strange things when children are involved. Ana would know. And almost hidden behind his father, the boy -- slicked-back hair, blazer, tie. He's not a child, exactly. Fourteen, fifteen maybe. Probably the same age as Michael's son.

Ana looks at them for a moment, then turns her attention away, to the other boy, the one reaching out to take Ben Linus's hand. Same blazer. Same tie.

Private school, probably. Uniforms. A bunch of boys all dressed alike, blending together with one another. Walt could wear one of those uniforms. Blend in. Disappear. Hell, Benjamin Linus might even help him do it. Wouldn't be the first time he'd rescued a child from the Island.

"You should send Michael," Ana says, and enjoys the moment when the conversation all around her just stops. "Michael and Walt. Walt's fourteen, right? Enroll him at the school, get him a blazer and a tie... They can make friends. Do it slowly, undercover, rather than just jumping in guns blazing and hoping that he doesn't shoot back." Then she turns, looks at Ethan and Locke staring at her. Locke is, possibly, smiling; Ethan is not.

But hell, Ethan chose her. It was never the other way around, with them.

"Maybe bring some other people in, keep them scattered around. But low-key. Make sure he's relaxed, comfortable, feels safe, and..." Then she shrugs, smiles. "And then you get your man."

Locke's little smirk turns into a full-on grin; Ethan's face is sour.

Even Sayid is looking at her now, but Ana can't read his face at all.

 

_January 4th, 2011_

 

"To be honest, I don't really know what she'll do," Sayid says, softly. It's late, and the tea in their mugs has gone cold, and Ben has classes to teach tomorrow; his son is already in bed but almost certainly lying awake, afraid --

All of these things are important, and Ben will deal with them as soon as he can. But this, first.

"Michael seemed pretty sure that he knew who she was working for," Ben suggests, but Sayid dismisses it with a casual wave of his hand.

"I doubt she herself knows who she's working for," he says. "She's good at playing both sides."

"Well." Ben smiles; Sayid doesn't quite smile back. "I suppose we'll have to make our side the most convincing, then."

 

_on the Island_

 

The second time she sees him, it's after she gets Michael and Walt their "get out of jail free" card. She's trailing after Ethan and Locke (still arguing, but now Locke's got the upper hand). Ana watches them for a little bit, smiles -- enjoys the moment, and then turns to look back --

And there he is, behind Mikhail's weird little house in the middle of nowhere, the shock of white hair and the dark suit. Tom. Or, not Tom; she made that name up, it was never really is. But it's him, all the same. The man who brought her to Australia. The man who accidentally (or maybe not so accidentally -- he's here, isn't he?) brought her here.

He waves.

Ana stops, stares. She does not wave back.

"Ana," Ethan snaps, from several yards ahead of her. "Are you coming?"

She glances over at him, then turns back to the man with the white hair and the dark suit, but he's gone.

"Yeah," she says. "Just. Saying goodbye to the cow."

And then she turns and follows them, eyes dropped so she doesn't have to see John Locke watching her with speculative eyes.

 

_January 2nd, 2011_

 

"I told Hugo I was gonna get him out of this," Ana says, staring at the gun in her hands. The one thing she likes about this whole arrangement; at least she's not defenseless anymore.

Everything else sucks, but at least she's got a damned gun again.

"Hugo's gonna be fine," Michael says, too easily, too confident. "Don't worry about Hugo. He's being taken care of."

"Don't tell me, let me guess," Ana says, still contemplating the gun. Hard to tell who to trust anymore. The urge to just get the hell out of this situation entirely, to just shoot her way free... She's not going to. But the urge is there. "Sayid's got him. He's working for Benjamin Linus too, and he's going to take Hugo to Ben, and he'll be there waiting for us to show up. And then we're all going to kill Ethan, and then we'll hide the body, and no one else will ever come for us and we're all going to be free. That about the idea?"

"Not quite," Michael says, and when Ana lifts her eyes to look at him, he's actually smiling. _Smiling._ "But close enough."

She stares at him for a little while, but he just looks at her, steady. God help her, she believes him. She really believes that he's working with Benjamin Linus. That he's not on Ethan's side, not any longer.

It's almost what she wanted.

Almost.

She stares back down at the gun in her hands.

"Listen," Michael says, sitting down next to her. "You and me, we don't actually have a hell of a lot of reason to trust each other. I get that. I do. But do you really think, for one second, that I would willingly put another father through what I went through? Do you really think I would drag Ben, drag his _son_ back to that Island, knowing exactly what's going to happen to them?"

Ana takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. "No," she says.

"I saw you, you know," Michael adds, and Ana doesn't let herself tense -- he's too close, he'll see -- but it's tricky. "I saw you with those kids from your end of the plane. Zach. Emma. You really cared about them."

Another deep breath. "So?" she asks.

"So that's why I'm trusting you," Michael says. "That's why, whether you know it or not, Ana, we're on the same side. Just... think about it." Then he stands up again, says, "Get some rest," and heads through the adjoining doors back into his own hotel room, closing the door behind him.

Ana contemplates her gun, and waits for Michael to throw the bolt, to lock himself in for the night. But he doesn't do it.

She could leave, that's the thing. She doesn't have to go through with this. She could walk into Michael's room, put the gun to his head, and demand he hand her those keys. Hell, she doesn't even need the keys. No one gets to be a cop without a little bit of crook in them; she learned that early on. She could hotwire the rental. Money she could figure out, somehow. She could get herself out of this.

But then there's the children to think about. Zach, Emma.

_Walt_.

The hell of it is, this was her idea. She got them here, to Ohio. She got them close to Benjamin Linus.

This is her fault, and it's her job to get them out of it. No matter what she has to do.

 

_November 2010_

 

"You know I know who you are," Ana says, because she's already tired of this little game. Where Widmore talks about how mean and awful Ethan is, and how he'll do anything to get what he wants, and blah blah blah and the implication is that _Widmore_ would never hurt anyone, never do anything wrong, never send an army of mercenaries to the Island because if he can't have it back, he'll burn the whole thing down. "I spent a month on that damn boat with the people you sent to kill every single man, woman and child on that Island; I know who you are."

Widmore finally turns and looks at her, hands resting on the back of his chair. "You do, do you?" he asks, calmly. "Well. Then. Presumably, if you know who I am, you know what I'm capable of." He pauses, smiles, face shadowed in the dim light. "I wonder, does Michael know? Who I am? And what I'm capable of? How about his son -- Walt, is it? What do you think he knows about me?"

Underneath the table, Ana's hands ball into fists, and she bites her next words back because she does know what he's capable of, and she probably shouldn't threaten him, not right now.

Widmore's smile widens. "Of course," he adds, "no one _has_ to get hurt, Ana. There are easier ways to do this. If you'd rather."

 

_on the Isand_

 

Ethan's not as interested in her after Michael and the others are sent after Ben Linus.

Not that Ana cares very much. Besides, she's got bigger things to worry about.

Like the guy in the suit, the one with the white hair, the one that stands just outside the pylons that guard the Barracks and watches her. He never says anything, never calls her by her name (never calls her "Sarah" either, for that matter). Vanishes as soon as he knows that she's spotted him. But he won't go away; he won't leave her alone.

It doesn't make any damn sense. She left him behind in Australia. She left him there to drink himself to death and she knows for a fact that he didn't follow her. He wasn't on the plane. And yet, somehow, here he is.

He is driving her crazy.

And because like calls to like, sooner or later John Locke finds her, staring out into the jungle, searching for the man in the suit.

"Five-four-four-three-nine," he says, striding through the tall grass towards her.

Ana blinks at him for a moment. "What?" she asks.

"The code," he says. "For the fence. So you can leave. It's five-four-four-three-nine."

She's not going to get a reasonable answer from him; no one gets answers from John Locke. She asks anyway. "Why are you telling me this?"

Locke just shrugs. "Because," he says. "Whatever the Island wants to tell you, I figure it's pretty important." Then he grins at her, says, "Good luck out there," and turns away again.

 

_January 4th, 2011_

 

Blaine is still awake when Ben wheels into their shared bedroom.

He doesn't say anything; he's trying, of course, to pretend that he's still asleep. But Ben knows his son too well to be fooled.

He could pretend, of course. He could wheel over to his hospital bed, lower the rails, lift himself up -- carefully, so carefully. He could lay in bed, listening, and wait for Blaine to fall asleep.

Ben has spent a long time waiting for things to happen. Truth be told, he's getting a little tired of waiting.

He makes his way to his son's bed, positions his chair as close as he can, and reaches out to comb his fingers through Blaine's dark hair. Blaine turns toward him, instinctively. He's grown so much since the first time Ben sang him to sleep, but he's still a child. He will always be a child, to Ben.

"Dad," Blaine whispers, and Ben shushes him.

After a moment, he even starts to sing.

_catch a falling star and put it in your pocket,  
never let it fade away_

 

_on the Island_

 

The last time Ana sees him, it's Hurley's fault.

It's not really Hurley's fault; that's not fair. It's this whole business with the freighter, with what Libby said about it. That it wasn't Penny's boat (whoever the hell Penny is, anyway), that they shouldn't trust the people on it. And Ana loved Libby; she really did, but the truth is that she doesn't give a crap whose boat it _isn't_. It's not Ethan's boat either, and that's good enough for her.

But it's not good enough for Hurley.

So he goes stomping off through the jungle in search of Ethan, even though he doesn't even know where the Barracks are and he's going to get lost and fall off a cliff or discover another hidden hatch with an angry Scotsman in it or... do whatever Hurley does, but the point is he gets in trouble a lot, and Ana likes him too much to let him do that, so she goes chasing after him.

Three hours later, she finds him, standing in front of a cabin.

There aren't any whispers. There's nothing at all. But everything feels so wrong that it's all Ana can do to not turn and run away.

"Come on," she says, and reaches out for Hurley's arm. "Let's get --"

When Hurley turns, that's when the white-haired man in the suit appears, standing behind Hurley. He smiles, and Ana stumbles back, falls flat on her ass. There's dust on her hands, ashes, and she remembers something she read a long time ago, about how people used to try to trap witches in circles of ash.

"Ana?" Hurley asks, like there's no one at all behind him. "Are you --"

And then a bullet whizzes past his ear, right through the place where the man in the suit was standing just a second ago (the place where he is, of course, no longer standing), and Hurley's eyes go wide and his mouth snaps shut.

Then the clearing around the cabin fills up with paramilitary types in camo uniforms, and Ana is almost relieved when she feels the barrel of a gun pressing into her temple, because at least she knows what a gun can do to her.

 

_January 1st, 2011_

 

"I _had_ a plan," Ana spits, dragging Michael into an alleyway. Keamy's men are barely half a block behind them; if this were the Island, she, Michael, and Hurley would already be dead now.

But it's not the Island. It's L.A. Keamy can't just open fire on them like he did back at the Barracks, not if he doesn't want to bring the whole thing crashing down. And Ana was a cop here, she knows the lay of the land.

"What was it?" Michael asks. "Playing along, trying to save your own ass, until Widmore crossed you one too many times and you turned on him? Because it seems to me that didn't work out so well for you the last time."

"Worked great for you, though, didn't it?" She leads him past two more doors, around a dumpster, following the sound of clattering dishes and voices calling out in spanish. "Got yourself all set up, nice and safe out in Ohio with your son -- So tell me, Michael, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Me?" Michael asks. "I'm doing the right thing. Heard you used to do that, back in the day. Back when you were a cop."

Ana turns and looks back at him for one disbelieving second, eyebrow raised. Then she shakes her head, turns back to the door in front of her. There's no handle on the outside -- never is, but with the right amount of force in the right spot. "So, what, you're offering me the chance to redeem myself? Go back to playing good cop again?"

"Hate to say it, Ana, but given what just happened back in that hotel, I don't know that you've got much of a choice."

"You think?" She's on him in a second, barrel of her gun tucked neatly under his chin -- the clip's empty and there's nothing left in the chamber, but Michael doesn't need to know that. "I could turn around right now, walk you up to Keamy and his men. They'd take me back."

Whatever's gotten into Michael, it's potent -- he doesn't even flinch. "You sure about that, Ana? 'Cause if I were one of them, I'd be wondering why you didn't just grab me the moment you saw me in that hotel. Why you let me get you out, get _Hugo_ out, and only gave me up after you were caught in a blind alley with nowhere to run to. I mean, you wanna take that chance, that's your call. But it's a chance, Ana. It's not a sure thing."

"Neither are you," Ana points out.

She takes a moment, takes a breath. At one end of the alleyway, footsteps, coming closer. At the other end, a sheer brick wall, no toeholds or garbage cans to climb. Ahead of her, the sounds of a Spanish-speaking kitchen.

She looks back at Michael. "You want to stay alive?" she asks. "You do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you to do it. And we might get out of this."

Without waiting for a reply, she drops her gun to her side, turns to the door, and kicks it in.

 

_November 2010_

 

"So what do you want?" she asks, fists still clenched under the table. It's not the first time she's made the Devil's bargain, but it never gets any easier.

Widmore turns away from her, off to a little cabinet, a tiny bar. He pours a glass of... something, contemplates it for a moment, then turns and carries it over to her. "Your friend," he says. "Michael. You said he was looking for Benjamin Linus."

Ana looks up at him for a long time, then finally forces her hands to relax, lays them on the table in front of her. "That's right," she says.

"I have reason to believe that he and Benjamin Linus have found each other," Widmore says. He sets the glass down in front of her, then takes a few steps back. As offers go, it's a pretty unambiguous one. "There is a possibility that he'll be willing to take you there. If the opportunity comes up, I think you should go."

"Just as a social call?" Ana asks. She doesn't reach out for the glass. Not yet.

Widmore smiles thinly at her. "No," he says.

 

_January 6th, 2011_

 

It's a big house, bigger than Ana'd been expecting. Linus has some money, looks like. "So this is it, huh?"

"Yeah," Michael says. His confidence seems to be fading; he's twitchy; nervous. But when he looks at Ana, his eyes are steady, and he sounds sincere when he says, "Thank you, Ana. For... For being here."

Ana musters a smile; it's easier than it really should be. "Let's do this," she says.

Michael smiles back at her for a second, then unbuckles his seatbelt and starts fumbling under his seat for his gun.

For a moment, just for a moment, Ana hesitates. Then she grabs her own gun, and clocks him in the head with the grip, knocking him sideways into the window. He slumps against the glass, unconscious.

"Sorry," Ana says, and it's true. It doesn't matter, and it doesn't change anything, but it's true. She is, in her own way, sorry.

Then she climbs out of the car, gun in hand, and makes her way towards Benjamin Linus's house.

 

*

 

"Can I help you?"

The woman at the receptionist's desk does not look up; Eloise suppresses a sigh. So much for everyday politeness.

"My name is Eloise Hawking," she says; the woman at the receptionist's desk still does not look up. "I'm here to visit a student. Miss Brittany S. Pierce?"

The woman leans to the side, starts rifling through a drawer of her desk. "Relationship to the student?" she asks, eyes still down.

Good Lord.

"She's my god-daughter," Eloise explains.

Finally, the woman glances up, gives her a blank stare. Then she drops her eyes back to her drawer again. "Sign in on the log," she says, rummaging a little further until she finds a badge. "This is your badge; wear that while you're in the building. Should I find her schedule for you?"

"That's all right," Eloise says; she signs the ledger with a flourish and then picks up her plastic visitor's badge. She contemplates it for a second, then sighs and clips it to her shawl. "I'll find her."  



	16. Collisions, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything Ethan has fought for, he has lost. Everything he has ever wanted has slipped through his fingers. And now Ben is about to step in and claim it all, and there is nothing Ethan can to do to stop him. But at least he can make it hurt.

_January 6th_

 

It's not over, yet, but it's better.

She thinks it's better.

She hopes it's better.

And even if it's not better, it's going to be better. Now that she's seen it, now that she understands.

Everything is going to get better.

(except)

Then she sees Eloise. Same face, more or less. Same shawl. Same pin, even, the one Brittany remembers seeing her wear when she and her parents went back to California, back to the Church where Brittany was baptized, to the woman who helped look after Brittany when she was just a baby. Maybe she was even wearing that pin the day Brittany was baptized, although Brittany doesn't remember it because babies don't have memories; maybe she's always worn it. It sort of seems like it, with how familiar it is. Brittany even sees it in her dreams sometimes -- the snake, wrapped around itself, head in one direction, tail in the other, and a loop in the middle.

(Brittany had asked, once, what it meant. Because jewelry means things, like rings mean "I'm married" and crosses mean "I like Jesus" and those weird stretcher things that people use to put giant holes in their ears mean either "I am part of a tribe that puts giant holes in their ears" or "I do not get along well with my father." So Brittany had figured the pin meant something, and she liked to know the meanings of things, so she asked.

(Eloise said it meant "Time." But then, Eloise was never really good at explaining things.)

(except)

And now Eloise is standing in the middle of the hallway at McKinley High School, hands clasped in front of her, and Brittany realizes that "better" is a lot further away than she ever thought it could be.

"For what it's worth," Eloise says, and Brittany's eyes fill up with tears because "better" is so far away and she is so scared. "I'm very sorry for all of this."

Brittany takes a deep breath.

Then she pushes past Eloise, and she runs. And she runs. And she runs.

 

*

 

There's a rocking chair in the living room.

Ethan shakes his head, laughs softly under his breath.

Of course, Ben won't remember that, anymore. Won't remember the day he came back to the Barracks, to his old house with the rocking chair on the porch. Tom had been basically carrying him -- it was astonishing, really, that the man had wasted away so much in such a short period of time but, of course, the Room would do that to you. So weak, but when he saw that chair, when the fear swept over him --

_It was your mother's. It would've been your mother's. But I guess it didn't work out that way. I don't know. I think it adds a certain something, don't you?_

He won't remember that anymore. The rocking chair, the playing cards, the coins and the fish and the dolls and the submarine manual -- all of it is gone now. Blaine has seen to that. Although that, in and of itself, is an interesting thing to consider. Whether Blaine saw anything, when he was rummaging around in his father's head; whether Blaine remembers any of it now. Because he might have seen some things. He might have seen some very interesting things.

He might remember them, even. Might be carrying them with him even now.

The things a boy will do for his father.

Ethan pauses, considers, then makes his way to the rocking chair, sits himself down in it.

Ben won't appreciate it of course; Ben won't appreciate most of what's about to happen here. Even Blaine, regardless of what he's seen, what he's remembered -- he doesn't know enough to understand, not this.

But it's the principle of the thing.

 

*

 

He hasn't had the dream yet.

Of course, he's barely slept for the last few days. The moment he saw Juliet -- because he's angry about what she did, of course, about what she would have done... but also, because he understands. She left because she thought she could, because she thought she could get away. If she came back, it was because she didn't have a choice. And he knows, he _knows_ , who would've taken her choice away from her.

(He doesn't understand why. His father doesn't worry about the _why_ s; he doesn't have time for it. But Blaine, who knows how they got off the Island, who knows who helped them when no one else would... He doesn't understand why. But then, he doesn't understand Ethan, not really. He's probably better off that way.)

He knows what's about to happen. Sort of. He knows where it starts, but not where it ends.

He thinks...

He thinks that if he has the dream...

_(the Light it was the Light the Light took you)_

If he has the dream, then he'll know where it ends. And he really, really does not want to know that.

So he hasn't been sleeping, not really. He can, a little. When his father is sitting by his bed at night, stroking his hair and singing softly -- Blaine sleeps then.

_(smell of a bonfire and the sound of waves and someone is stroking his hair; it's not his father but his father is there, somewhere, and he would be okay if it wasn't for what he's done, what he had to do to bring him back again, to bring them all back --)_

"-- Blaine?" Kurt asks, and lays a warm hand against his back, and it's that, really, that touch, that pulls Blaine out of it.

"Sorry," he says, turning away from his locker (he hasn't even opened the door yet -- is he really that sleep-deprived?) "Sorry, Kurt; I --"

"It's okay," Kurt says, and smiles down at him. He leaves his hand on Blaine's back, reaches around with the other hand to open Blaine's locker for him. Blaine should feel caged; with anyone else, he'd feel caged. But Kurt makes a lot of things safe that just wouldn't be safe with anyone else. "You know, if you need to skip glee club, go home early, take a _nap_..."

Blaine shakes his head, lets himself lean back a little bit into Kurt's hand. "No, we should..." He shakes his head, starts emptying his bag, piling his books neatly in his locker. He's getting better all the time -- he hasn't used his crutches in weeks, but it's still not easy for him to carry a full backpack around all day. He misses his satchel, the one he had at Dalton, before he got shot. He misses things being easy. "It's bad enough I've been hiding out from everyone at lunch; I... I mean, when this is all over, when things get back to normal, it'd be good if I --"

"Of course," Kurt says, and when Blaine turns his head, he can see Kurt smiling at him. _When things go back to normal_. Blaine's not totally sure they ever will, that they ever can, and he knows Kurt's not sure either, but he's glad, anyway, that Kurt's willing to pretend.

"Besides," Blaine says, zipping his bag shut. "It's the only class I have with Brittany, and I want to make sure she's okay." The smile slips a little from Kurt's face. "I mean, I'm sure she is -- you know, it's one of those things, where it gets cold and dry and some people don't... But it was a little scary, the other day. And, let's face it, I'm kind of... jumpy right now."

And just like that, Kurt's smile is back. "Yeah," Kurt says, and rubs Blaine's back soothingly. "Yeah, of course. We'll... We'll have a nap after, maybe. I mean, not that I -- Not that we have to be together, but... I'm a little tired too, so. We can both nap."

"We can nap together," Blaine says, and smiles back at Kurt, and closes his locker. "If your dad doesn't mind. And _my_ dad doesn't mind."

"If our dads don't mind," Kurt agrees, and leaves his hand in the small of Blaine's back as they walk down the hallway, together.

 

*

 

He's been in the rocking chair just long enough to wish he'd grabbed a book before he sat down when he finally hears the door open. It's careful, quiet -- obviously not Ben, or his son, or any of the people who've offered him shelter (Ben does have a gift for finding shelter; Ethan's always secretly envied him that). Someone who's trying to sneak in. Someone who still thinks that no one's expecting her.

Ethan folds his hands in his lap, and smiles, and waits.

A few stealthy, soft footsteps, and then Ethan sees the barrel of Ana's gun. Moments later, the rest of her emerges from around the corner. She doesn't see him, not at first; her gaze sweeps the room, looking for threats, and then finally settles on him. A shocked intake of breath, and then the gun is leveled at him. She keeps it steady as she enters the room, eyes still flicking from side to side, checking the corners, making sure he's alone.

"Where's Linus?" she asks, eyes finally settling on Ethan, gaze steady and unwavering. "Benjamin Linus -- where is he?"

Ethan just shrugs. "He's somewhere," he says. "Bathroom, maybe. You should have a seat. I'm sure he won't be long. He's expecting us."

"That right?" Ana asks; she looks around the room again, like she expects Ben to come bursting out of a closet or possibly smash through the window. "What makes you so sure?"

"I've known Benjamin Linus since I was a child, Ana; I've gotten pretty good at predicting him, over the years."

She glares at him, glances right again, glances left again. Doesn't seem to hear the rattle of wheelchair spokes, or the soft tread of feet coming from the direction of what Ethan believes to be the kitchen. Really, Ethan would expect a cop to be more observant. But it's been a long few months; maybe she's just tired.

"The couch looks comfy," he says. "Maybe you should sit there."

"Thanks," Ana drawls, with impressive sarcasm; Ethan's missed her, he really has. "But I prefer to remain standing."

"I'm afraid, Miss Cortez, that I must insist."

Ana's gaze snaps up to the hallway; when Ethan glances in the same direction, he is not at all surprised to see Benjamin Linus sitting there in his wheelchair, hands folded on his lap, all wide blue eyes and pursed lips and faint disdain. He can't say he was expecting Ben to have Hugo Reyes, of all people, at his shoulder -- Hurley certainly wouldn't be _Ethan's_ first pick for a bodyguard -- but he's not surprised to see Ben.

After all, he wanted Ben to know he was coming. That was the whole point.

"Hurley?" Ana asks. The gun sags just a little in her hand; clearly, she wasn't expecting to see Hugo either.

"Yes, Miss Cortez." There is the faintest touch of disapproval to Benjamin's tone; Ethan can't help but be at least a little amused. "As I'm sure Michael told you -- before you pistol-whipped him, of course -- Hugo is safe and sound and, obviously, with us. It's a shame you didn't believe him; this could have been much simpler. But." He wheels a little further into the room, Hugo shuffling along behind him. "It is what it is. Which is why, again, I must insist that you drop your weapon, take a few steps over to that couch there, and sit down."

Ana looks down at Ben, but keeps her gun leveled on Ethan. "And why," she says, "would I do that?"

Ben clears his throat. Seconds later, five more people pour in from the hallway -- Ethan recognizes Sayid, Michael, and Sun at once; the other two, he supposes, must be Carole and Burt Hudson-Hummel. They're all armed, of course; Ben would never really risk himself, or Hugo. He's brave, not stupid.

"Your gun, please, Miss Cortez," Ben says, in that same measured, level tone of voice.

Ana takes a good look around the room, obviously sees the better part of valor, and crouches down, laying her weapon on the floor. When she stands up again, her hands are raised in the air. Surrender.

"Thank you. Now, if you wouldn't mind --" Ben gestures to the couch, and Ana finally, reluctantly, sits down.

"Not bad, Ben," Ethan says, drawing Ben's attention to himself. It's funny, really -- another of those little ironies that Ben is no longer capable of appreciating. Ethan spent so much of his time seeking Ben's attention, his approval. Of course, Ben always pushed him off; Ethan used to wonder what he'd done, why Ben hated him so much.

But of course, Ben didn't hate him at all. He was trying to _protect_ him.

Poor old predictable Benjamin.

"Thank you, Ethan," Ben says. Quiet, measured. Calm.

Ethan's come to terms, more or less, with the idea that Ben is better than him. That Ben is Special, that Ben will have what Ethan always wanted. He's learned to accept the things he cannot change. But there is still a bitter, angry core of him that cannot wait to rattle Ben's glacial serenity, to see the cracks start to form.

"Quite an army you've managed to raise here," Ethan says, gesturing at the assembled forces.

Ben's answer is nothing more than a nod, a brief inclining of the head. He's not talking; of course he's not -- he wants Ethan to talk. To spill the details of his plan.

Ethan will oblige, but not right now. Right now, he's just... planting the seeds.

"I notice Holly Holliday isn't here," he says. "But, of course, you would have left her at the school, to keep an eye on Juliet. In case she decided to take your son hostage while you were preoccupied with me. Or any of the students, really; I understand you're a very devoted teacher."

Ben's gaze shifts, briefly, to the Hudson-Hummels; Carole looks back at him. Burt keeps his eyes (and his shotgun) trained squarely on Ethan. Good man.

"Are you going somewhere with this, Ethan?" Ben asks.

Ethan smiles. "Not really," he says.

Not yet, anyway.

 

*

 

The strange thing about it is how strange it isn't. Here she is, back at McKinley with a brand-new secret agenda, only this time, Ben knows. But apart from that one strained encounter, he hasn't said anything. And everyone else...

It's exactly the same. She doles out prescription meds for the kids who need them -- antibiotics, insulin injections, a few different types of anti-depressants. She gives girls with bad period cramps a place to escape the hardship of gym class; she judges whether sore throats are fake or real and responds accordingly. Just the way she did before she decided to run, before Ethan found her and brought her back.

Normal.

Except, of course, for the ever-ticking clock.

But it's normal, mostly, right up until the moment there's a tap at her door and a dark-haired cheerleader pokes her head into the room. "Nurse Juliet?" she asks.

And it's still normal when Juliet says, "Hi there. Can I help you?"

Then the door opens and the girl slips in, Holly Holliday right behind her, and Juliet has the sudden feeling that the clock has finally run out.

She swallows hard, but still manages to ask, "You _had_ to bring a student with you?"

Holly usually has a loud, infectious laugh (one of the reasons Juliet both can and can't understand why she and Ben are so close, because they're so different), but today she doesn't muster more than a sort of grunt. "She's been waiting outside my classroom for the past three days," Holly explains, and rests a hand on the cheerleader's arm, a casual sort of restraint. "Wanting to know when I was going to come 'take you out.' I really don't think she likes you."

"I really don't," the girl agrees. Her smile shows white, sharp teeth.

"Well, I don't see why," Juliet says, standing up from behind her desk -- Holly tenses up a little, and the cheerleader takes half a step back, so she's not as brave as she looks. But brave enough, maybe. It's a shame Juliet doesn't have Ben's memory for names; she knows she's seen the girl, she should remember -- "I haven't done anything to you. In fact, I haven't done anything to anyone. I'm just here for --"

"Really?" the cheerleader asks, coming forward again; Holly's grip on her arm tightens just a little bit. "Because that's not what Karofsky thinks. In fact, he was pretty sure that _you_ were the one behind the whole thing. That this was all your --"

"David didn't exactly see everything," Juliet murmurs, but it's clicking, now. David Karofsky. The home ec room. The cheerleader who got trapped down there with Blaine and the Hummel boy. Santana Lopez.

That was the big picture, the one they used in all the newspapers, Santana standing in front of the school, hugging another cheerleader. A blonde cheerleader.

_Oh._

Well, if Santana didn't hate Juliet before, she's about to now.

"I'm so sorry," Juliet says, and genuinely means it.

Santana just shakes her head. "It's a little late for --"

"Sorry," Holly repeats, pushing past Santana. There's a dangerous realization in her eyes, and she has one hand reaching behind her back; Juliet wonders if she has the gun from the filing cabinet in Ben's office. Or maybe she's borrowed the collapsible baton. "Sorry for _what_ , Juliet?"

Juliet lets herself be backed up against the desk. She could fight Holly, weapon or no weapon. She could probably even win. But there's bigger things to think about, now that the clock's run out. "I know what you're thinking," she says, letting a little fear slip through into her voice. It probably won't help her but it never hurts to try. "But I promise you, Holly, I had nothing to do with this. I would never -- I'm here to help, that's all. I'm just... I'm here to help."

Holly leans in closer yet, forcing Juliet to bend backwards. "I'm listening," she says.

Except that there's no real way for Juliet to explain, and it doesn't matter anyway, because she hears the sound of running feet in the hallway. When the clock ran out for her, it ran out for everyone.

"It's Brittany," she says. "I'm here to help Brittany."

Whatever Santana was about to say is lost in the sound of the door bursting open and Noah Puckerman saying, "Nurse Juliet, we need you in the -- Wow okay that's really hot, but Brittany's like, unconscious, and we really need you so if you could stop making out with Miss Holliday and --"

Holly pulls back abruptly, grabs Juliet by the arm, and starts hauling her towards the door. "I don't know what you're doing," she growls, dragging Juliet past Santana's stunned, shattered face, Puck's worry and confusion. "I don't know what you think this is going to help, but if you hurt that girl, I swear to _God_ \--"

"I'm just here to help," Juliet repeats, but she doesn't fight, lets Holly push her towards the choir room.

Behind her, she can hear Santana ask, softly, "Wait. What... what happened to Brittany?" It shouldn't make her hate herself any more than she already does, but. Self-loathing was never really rational anyway.

 

 

*

 

"Now, I'd prefer not to hurt anyone," Ben says, still calmly seated in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap, makeshift army behind him. "But I'm not going back to the Island, and I am _not_ letting you take my son, and I will do whatever I have to to stop you. Even if..." He takes a deep breath, lets his shoulders settle. "Even if."

"Even if it means hurting us," Ethan says, and smiles at him. "But tell me, Ben. What if we weren't the ones who got hurt? What if it was... well. Someone else? A student, maybe. One of your... What do you call them? The Brainiacs?"

Ben freezes in place; behind him, Burt Hudson-Hummel turns dark as a thundercloud.

"I've been doing some research," Ethan explains, leaning forward. "Smart group of kids you've found. I mean, Mike and Artie were obvious choices. And Tina's a standout, academically. But _Brittany_. Now there's a find." Ben's hands find the arms of his wheelchair, hands gripping so hard his knuckles go white. "Not that anyone else would have noticed, of course. I'm curious, Ben. What was it, exactly, that made you realize you had a genuine genius on your hands?"

"You're bluffing," Ben says, but there's that quaver in his voice that suggests he knows better.

"And of course she got attached to you," Ethan says. "I mean, after all those years of remedial classes, after every other teacher had given up on her, after every single person she knew had labeled her as stupid, there you were. And you saw what no one else could see, and you believed in her, and you... You reached out."

Ben's eyes are wide as dinner plates.

"Stop it, Ethan," Sayid says, warningly.

"And when she realized that trouble was coming for her favorite teacher, that we were coming," Ethan continues, still smiling blandly. "Of course, she'd want to do something to protect you. But. She's a genius. She doesn't think about things the way we do. So her solution was a bit... outside-the-box, shall we say. But it's impressive. For a teenage girl to do what she did? It's very, very impressive."

"What are you talking about?" Ben demands, still teetering on the edge of losing control.

And in that one, perfect moment, the cell phone tucked in Ben's shirt pocket buzzes, ready to tip him over.

Ethan settles back in his chair, even rocks a little, just because he can. "You should probably answer that," he says, still smiling.

 

*

 

They don't even make it all the way to the choir room.

Maybe fifteen feet from the door, Blaine hears running footsteps, and he knows. He stops, looks up, and sees Brittany running towards them, ponytail bobbing. There is a dark smear of blood just underneath her nose and her eyes are wild. Kurt's hand tightens in Blaine's sweater.

"Britt --" he says, and she stumbles, goes down on one knee.

"Oh God," Kurt says, letting go of Blaine's shirt abruptly. He hurries to get to Brittany, and Blaine knows he should be moving too, knows he should help --

But when Brittany went down, Blaine saw the woman approaching from behind her, and he can't even breathe, let alone move.

"Brittany?" Kurt asks, crouching down and trying to hold Brittany up, but she's limp in his arms, like she's barely even conscious. "Britt, come on, talk to me, _Brittany_ \--"

"Is it okay?" Brittany asks, rousing herself just enough to lean up and wrap her arms around him, tuck her face into the collar of his shirt in an exhausted sort of hug. "Is it really, Kurt?"

"Sure," Kurt says, voice shaking. "Sure, Britt. It's okay now."

"Okay," Brittany says. "Okay."

Then she slumps, ragdoll limp, into Kurt's arms.

"Brittany?" he asks, trying to shake her a little. "Britt, no, come on, wake up -- Brittany, please, _Brittany_ \--"

And Blaine knows he should do something. He should call his father; he should find Miss Holliday; he should do -- something. But it's not until he sees how close the woman has gotten to Kurt and Brittany, how very very close she is, that he can finally move.

"Stay away from them," he says, stumbling forward as fast as he can, and his voice comes out choked with tears, and he knows he sounds like a scared child but he can't help it, he can't -- "Stay away from them, don't you come near them, don't you dare --"

Eloise stops where she is, barely five feet from where Brittany and Kurt are crumpled together on the ground; Blaine keeps moving until his foot is right next to Kurt's hip, until he's standing over them, his hand tight on his cane because he doesn't want to hurt Eloise but he will, if he has to. If she won't leave -- if she won't leave them alone, he _will_ \--

"Blaine?" Kurt asks, very softly.

"This isn't about them," Blaine says. "Stay away from them; this isn't about them; you can't --"

"I'm sorry, Blaine," Eloise says, and Blaine has to choke back the traitorous sobs lodging themselves at the back of his throat. "But it was _always_ about them."

 

*

 

The boy is crying; Ethan can tell from the look on Ben's face. Ever since he first took the child in his arms; ever since the first time he heard that voice crying out, there's been this look that he gets. A sort of desperation, mixed with the most peculiar resolve. He never could stand to hear the boy cry. And when he does...

Well. There's nothing Ben wouldn't do for his son. And that's what makes him so dangerous.

But his voice is gentle when he says, "It's all right, Blaine. It's going to be all right. We'll be there soon, I promise. It'll be all right."

And then he lowers the phone from his ear, and hangs up, and slides the phone back into his pocket.

For a few moments, the silence is so absolute that Ethan is tempted to drop a pin, just to see what would happen.

Then Ben's hands tighten once more around the arms of his wheelchair, and his knuckles go white with strain as he pushes himself up to his feet. Or foot, really; he's still got most of his weight on one leg. Ethan's not planning on capitalizing on that knowledge; he isn't interested in turning either of the Hummel-Hudsons into murderers (not yet, anyway), and he knows what would happen if he lashed out. But it's interesting, the way Ben pushes the pain aside.

"What did you do to her, Ethan?" Ben asks, his voice so soft, almost wounded.

"Nothing," Ethan says, and keeps the smile plastered to his face. He even stands up, just so Ben can have a better target for his eventual explosion. "I didn't do anything to her, Ben. I didn't have to. She did it to herself. To save _you_."

He's expecting Ben to throw a punch, but he gets backhanded instead, a solid blow connecting with his jaw hard enough to knock him off balance, send him reeling sideways into the rocking chair, which collapses underneath him with a crack.

There's a muffled gasp from Carole Hudson-Hummel.

Ana says "Holy _shit_." She sounds impressed.

Ethan tastes blood in his mouth, tongues his teeth to see if Ben's knocked any of them loose and, with the splintered bits of the rocking chair underneath his legs and hands, wonders if Ben remembers more than Ethan was willing to give him credit for. He's about to pick himself up, to ask, when he hears the sound of a gun being cocked.

"I suggests you stay down," Sayid says, with that specific quiet he gets right before he's about to shoot someone, and Ethan's not ready to die yet, so he stays where he is.

"Ben," Burt Hudson-Hummel says. "What the hell's going on? Is it --"

"We have to go," Ben says; with his eyes on the floor, Ethan can't see much more than Ben's well-polished shoes. One of Ben's feet drags as he starts to make his way to the door -- it might make more sense for Ben to take the thirty seconds to get back in his chair, but if Ben's friends aren't willing to point that out, then Ethan surely isn't. "To the school. Right now."

A pause.

"Son of a bitch," Burt murmurs.

"Okay," Carole says, still a little breathless. "Okay, come on. Let's go."

"And Ana?" Sayid asks. "And Ethan? What about them?"

"Keep them here, for now," Ben says. "Oh, and if Ethan says one more word, Sayid? You have my permission to shoot him."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sayid says.

But, of course, Ethan has nothing else to say. It's enough to watch Ben's feet as he limps out of the room, Carole and Burt falling into step behind him, and to know.

Everything Ethan has fought for, he has lost. Everything he has ever wanted has slipped through his fingers. And now Ben is about to step in and claim it all, and there is nothing Ethan can to do to stop him.

But at least he's made it hurt.  



	17. The Variable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The question is not _how_ did Brittany build a time machine. The question is: _why?_

_1993_

 

"Are you sure?"

The doctor sighs, nods, shrugs. "Judging by what I saw on the ultrasound, she's at least eight weeks along. We're running out of time, Horace."

"Damn it." Horace pushes his glasses up on his nose. For all Pierre has accomplished, and Pierre has accomplished a hell of a lot, there are times when Horace wishes Ann Arbor had never given them permission to build the Orchid. Whatever Faraday and Lewis did out there... It screwed a lot of things up. For a lot of people.

Granted, condoms would prevent at least half the problems they're having, but. People make mistakes.

And Horace, as always, is the one who has to fix them.

"All right," Horace says. "All right. Have you told them yet?"

The doctor shakes his head. "Thought I should come to you first," he says.

Horace nods. Typical. Lately, no one wants to take a piss without talking to Horace first. He misses Radzinsky some days. Radzinsky made more than his fair share of mistakes, but at least the man had a mind of his own. Not a lot of that left in the DHARMA Initiative anymore. Granted, that's at least half Horace's fault, but even so. "Fine," Horace says. "That's fine. Bring the Pierces in here; we'll talk to them together. And I'll get a hold of Inman, see if he can't get that last recruit of his to make up his mind. Obviously, getting Leah and Wim off the Island is our first priority, but --"

"You know Wim doesn't have to go," the doctor points out; when Horace glances up at him, the man takes a step back. "I mean, not that he can't, but -- Leah's the one in danger; there's no reason to --"

"It's his child," Horace says, firmly enough to make the doctor flush and fall silent. "He should be there. Anyway, it's not like it's permanent. Once the baby's born, and everything's... settled, they can always come back. But. That's all later. For now, let's just... Concentrate on the task at hand, shall we?"

"Of course," the doctor says. "Well. I'll... just go get the Pierces, then."

He shuffles out the door, and Horace lets out a sigh, sinks back in his chair. He glances over at the photo of Ethan on his desk, smiling shyly at the camera, and sighs again. Sometimes he wonders -- if he'd sent Amy away, the way he's sending Leah away, the way he's sent so many women away -- If he'd gone with her, even. If he'd left the Island behind. Would it be different now, between Ethan and himself?

But the work, the Island, has always been more important.

But. Sometimes, he wonders.

It's too late to change things, of course. What happened happened. The important thing is saving Leah and her unborn baby. There will be time for regret later.

 

_January 6th, 2011_

 

"For what it's worth," Eloise says, and Brittany's eyes fill up with tears because "better" is so far away and she is so scared. "I'm very sorry for all of this."

And Brittany takes a deep breath, and pushes past her, and runs, and runs, and runs.

She can't change what happened, but maybe she can stop it before anything gets worse.

(except)

 

_???_

 

"... Britt?"

Brittany's breath catches in her chest and her eyes flutter open. It's Daniel -- it's his same face, and his same long hair, and his same beard, because Daniel never changes, and Brittany's eyes well up with tears, and a sob catches at the back of her throat, because she's so _scared_.

"Are you okay? Was it... was it another jump? Did you jump again?" Daniel asks, and Brittany whimpers, nods, and wipes her nose with the sleeve of her jumpsuit.

"It's okay," Daniel tells her, and puts his arm around her shoulders. "It's okay. Look, Kurt's here, he's right here with you."

Someone pats Brittany's knee, and Brittany turns, sees Kurt's hand on her knee, long-fingered and pale and so familiar it makes her cry even harder.

"I'm sorry, Kurt," she sobs, and Kurt makes a soothing noise. "I didn't want to bring you; I didn't want to bring anyone. I just wanted --"

"It's okay, Britt," Kurt says, and then Daniel lets go of her and she slides gratefully into Kurt's outstretched arms, letting him hug her tight. "It's okay. What happened happened."

"Is it okay?" Brittany asks, because she doesn't know. But Kurt is her Constant; if anyone would know, it's him. "Is it really, Kurt?"

There's a pause, and then Kurt says, "Sure. Sure, Britt. It's okay now."

"Okay," Brittany whispers, and hugs him close and waits to go back to where she belongs. "Okay, Kurt. Okay."

 

_January 6th, 2011_

 

It hurts more than she thought it would.

Kurt and Brittany will be fine; or at least, they'll be fine for some time yet to come, and so although it's not exactly easy for Eloise to see her god-daughter the way she is now, crumpled and unconscious and cradled in the arms of a wide-eyed teenage boy, she has a modicum of comfort in knowing that they will survive this, and go on. For a little while, anyway.

But Blaine --

She doesn't know what will happen to Blaine from this point forward, and that gives her a moment's pause.

"This isn't about them," Blaine says, the words coming out choked with tears. He's so much more a child than Eloise was at that age, more of a child than Benjamin was, although of course that's the point, isn't it? To give your children longer than you had, to give them more of a childhood than you were allowed. But sooner or later, it always has to end. "Stay away from them; this isn't about them; you can't --"

"I'm sorry, Blaine," Eloise says, and forces herself to remain calm even as she sees the fear, the despair, the resignation settle in his eyes. "But it was _always_ about them."

"But they're not --"

Blaine's last attempt at protest is silenced by a door slamming open, footsteps hurrying out into the hallway. A crowd of students, no doubt attracted by the commotion and the raised voices, clustering around an older man. A teacher, probably. "Blaine," the teacher says; Blaine doesn't turn, keeps his eyes on Eloise. "Blaine, what --"

"Brittany!" A boy in a wheelchair -- young Mr. Abrams, of course -- pushes himself around the teacher, making his way to Kurt's side. "Is she --"

"I don't know," Kurt says, still cradling her close. "I don't know -- she was running, and then she fell, and then she --"

"Let me see," Artie says, and Kurt carefully eases Brittany away from her shoulder, so Artie can examine the smear of blood trailing down from her nose.

Artie takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then says, "Santana. Somebody... somebody get Santana. We need --"

The teacher attempts to butt in at that. "I really think the nurse would be more --"

"She doesn't need a nurse," Artie says. "She needs --"

Eloise clears her throat, takes a step forward; she notices that Blaine's hand tightens on his cane. He wouldn't strike at her, of course, but then again he might. The boy is his father's son, and he'll do what he has to. But Eloise has no intentions of pushing him that far. She has work to do. "Her Constant is already here," she says; and Artie stares up at her, wide-eyed.

"How did you --" He shakes his head. "No, Santana's her Constant; she told me, if anything happens, that --"

"And I'm sure that she believed it at the time," Eloise says. "Unfortunately, she was wrong."

Her eyes settle on Kurt; he tightens his grip on Brittany and stares back at her with impressive defiance.

"What?" The teacher, trying again. "Never mind; I don't -- Puck, go get the nurse. Mike, Sam, help get Brittany inside the --"

"I've got her," Kurt says, his soft voice drowned out by the louder protests of a tall boy at the back of the group who says,

"You can't! You don't know who Juliet is! She's not --"

Then Kurt shifts Brittany in his arms a little more, and very slowly rises to his feet, carrying her up with him. "I've got her," he says again, more loudly this time. "Puck, go get the nurse. We'll be in the choir room."

"Kurt," the tall boy says, helplessly, and Kurt's expression softens, but not very much.

"I don't think she can make this any worse," Kurt says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, shifting Brittany in his arms. It's possible -- as tall as Brittany is, as strong as she is -- that she's just a shade too heavy for Kurt to carry alone. But he'll never admit it. He's far too stubborn for that. An interesting choice for the Island to make. "Let's just --"

"Kurt," and this time it's Blaine speaking, voice softer now but still wounded. But he rests his hand in the small of Kurt's back, helping him to balance, helping steer him back towards the choir room.

After a moment's hesitation, Artie starts wheeling himself after them.

"Go, Puck," the teacher says, and Puck (a broad-shouldered boy with ridiculous hair), hurries away down the hall.

Everyone else looks at one another, then starts slowly trailing back towards the choir room. Eloise lets them make their way through the doors, then sighs heavily and follows after.

It's what has to be done. It's what she's here for. But it does hurt, more than she expected it to.

 

_1998_

 

The moment she realizes he's gone, she starts to panic.

He's so small, and there's so many bad people in the world, and anything could happen to him. And that's terrifying enough. But it's not just that, not really. It's...

It's _Ben_ , is what it is. It's Ben, and it's _her_ , waking up in the dark night from a terrible dream and going to his house and seeing the front door wide open, one light still on in the living room and the table covered with empty beer cans, a sour smell in the air and no one there, not Ben, not his father. Leaving the houses behind and heading away, out to the fence, further than she ever would go on her own, but Ben was gone and she'd had such a terrible dream and so she did. Seeing the control pad open and knowing that it wasn't a dream, not really. And then the jungle, so deeply and absolutely dark, and the sounds -- the rustling of leaves, the crackle of twigs breaking underfoot, bird songs -- not knowing whose presence was rustling the leaves, not knowing whose feet were crackling twigs, and of course the Hostiles could communicate by birdsong; they'd learned all about it in school. That the Hostiles were almost invisible in the jungle, that they could be anywhere, and that was why no one should ever go out unless they were on a DHARMA road, going to a DHARMA station, and especially never ever at night, but _Ben_ \--

But she never found Ben.

He was just... gone.

And now, so many years later, Kurt is gone -- her _son_ is gone, and just like that, Annie starts to panic. It doesn't matter that they're in Venice Beach and not on the Island, that there's bright sunlight instead of the suffocating darkness of the jungle, laughter and talk instead of the distant crackle of breaking branches and the haunting echo of bird calls -- Kurt is _gone_ and Anne knows that if she can't find him in the crowds, he will be gone, gone forever, gone like Ben and there is nothing --

"Over here," Burt calls out, and just like that, the world stops whirling around her, resolves itself into another day at the beach. Because maybe thirty feet away -- maybe not even that -- her tall, broad-shouldered, beloved Burt Hummel is standing with one hand on their son's shoulder, the other held high in the air, flagging her down. And Annie can breathe again. "I got him. It's okay."

Annie brushes the tears away from her eyes and hurries over to her beaming husband and their beautiful boy.

It's not until she gets closer, though, that she realizes that Kurt's not the only child Burt's watching over. There's a little blonde girl standing next to them, holding what looks like one of Annie's dad's old handkerchiefs in her hands. The girl glances at Annie, all suspicion and hope, and Annie tamps down the lingering edges of her panic and tries to force something like a reassuring smile onto her face.

"I gave her my square," Kurt explains, smiling sunnily up at Annie. "Her nose was bleeding so I gave it to her, and she got better."

"That's very nice of you, Kurt," Annie says, crouching down at the little girl's side. She blinks back at Annie, pulls the pocket square a little closer. "Honey, what happened? Did you fall? Did you hurt yourself?"

The girl just looks at her, and then slowly shakes her head.

"We're a little shy," Burt explains, even as he crouches down too. "Haven't even gotten her name yet."

The girl eyes Burt, eyes Annie again for good measure, and then takes a deep shuddering breath, clutching the handkerchief even tighter.

"Sweetheart --" Annie says, because they're going to have to get something out of the girl or they're never going to get her to her parents, but then she hears someone calling out --

"Brittany? Brittany!"

And the girl sort of unfolds at that, stretching tall so she can peer over Burt and Annie's heads, and they look at each other, just a quick glance before straightening up and waving their arms and calling out, in unison -- "Here! Over here! We've got her."

A pretty blonde woman hurries over, followed by a young man with long hair and a beard, wearing a black necktie -- possibly the only person on the beach wearing a tie (apart from Kurt's pale blue bow tie, of course). "There you are, sweetheart," the blonde woman coos, scooping her daughter up into her arms. "You had us so worried. Didn't she, Daniel? What were you doing, running off like that, by yourself."

"She was looking for me," Kurt says, still calm and cheerful. "She said she'd been looking for me for ever."

"Did she now?" the blonde woman asks, smiling down at Kurt, and Burt snickers and turns his face away. "Well. I can't say I'm that surprised. You're a very handsome young man."

Kurt blinks at her, like he doesn't quite understand. Then he shakes it off, and says, obviously trying to be helpful, "Her nose was bleeding. I gave her my square so she'd get better."

"It's his pocket square," Annie explains; the man in the tie tugs on a corner of the handkerchief clutched in Brittany's hands. She shakes her head vigorously at him, and he subsides. "We're very into suits these days."

"And you wear them very well," the blonde woman says, before turning her attention back to her daughter. "Sweetheart, what happened? Did you fall? Are you okay?"

The girl just looks at her, the way she looked at Annie. Then she turns imploring eyes on her father, and he sighs.

"All right, Brittany," he says, and reaches out; the girl's mother sighs too, and hands her over. "All right. Tell me."

Brittany leans in to whisper in her father's ear, and her mother watches for a moment, then turns back to Annie and Burt.

"I don't think she trusts me yet," she says, confidingly; Annie glances at her husband, and he looks back at her, obviously every bit as confused as she is.

"It's not that she doesn't trust you, Theresa," the man in the tie says. "But you don't speak her language. If you spoke her language --"

"She has her own language," the blonde woman -- Theresa, apparently -- says. "I don't -- I haven't learned it, yet. Dan knows, though, so it's all right."

"But you're not --" Annie says, and looks to Burt for backup; and then, finding none, looks back at Theresa again. "Brittany, I mean; isn't she your --"

"Oh no," Theresa says, laughing. "Oh, no. Goodness, no. We're not related, or anything. Daniel's mother is Brittany's godmother. That's all. We're just... I thought it might be nice to get Dan away from his research for the day, and into the fresh air. And it's... easier, when we bring Brittany along."

Annie's not entirely sure whether there's a little jealousy there or if she's just reading too much into things, but she doesn't really like Theresa as much as she did when they first met, and she has a feeling that Burt feels exactly the same way.

But there isn't really time to ponder it, because Kurt is already pulling on Daniel's trouser leg, and asking, "Your mother is Brittany's godmother?"

Daniel glances down at him, almost as though he's seeing him for the first time. "That's right," he says, slowly.

"Is she a fairy?" Kurt asks, innocently.

Burt snickers again.

Daniel considers it for a moment, and then says, "Maybe. Maybe she is. Which I suppose would make Brittany a princess --" he bounces her in his arms, and she giggles, "-- and you her Prince Charming."

Kurt nods thoughtfully. "Should I kiss her?" he asks, like he's not really sure.

"If you want to," Daniel says. "And if _she_ wants to. What do you say, Britt. Do you want to?"

She leans in and whispers in his ear, and Daniel nods and says, "All right, then," and lowers her very carefully to the ground.

Kurt studies Brittany for a long moment, like he's still making his mind up, and before he's moved so much as a hair, Brittany leans in and kisses him on the cheek, and giggles again.

" _Meevsop forkloop_ ," she says -- or something that sounds like that, anyway.

Kurt frowns, and tips his head to the side, and finally tries, "You're welcome?"

Brittany smiles back at him, and then holds out the handkerchief. But Kurt very gently takes her hands and pushes them back towards her chest.

"You can have it," he says. "So if you get another nosebleed again, and I'm not around, you can still get better."

Then they hug, and let go, and Kurt steps back and takes Burt and Annie's hands.

"Well," Annie says.

"Thanks," Daniel says, scooping Brittany up again. "And. Um. Maybe we'll see you again sometime."

"Sure," Burt says. "Good to meet you."

"You as well," Theresa says, and turns, and starts walking away.

Daniel and Brittany hesitate for a moment, then wave, and then follow.

"Well," Burt says, once they've gone. "That was an adventure. Anyone else in the mood for some tacos?"

And Kurt cheers, and Annie smiles, and by the time they've gotten to the taco truck, they've more or less forgotten about all of it.

 

_January 6th, 2011_

 

"A time machine," Mr. Schue is saying, eyebrows raised skeptically. "Mike, I don't really think --"

Kurt tunes him out, focusing on Brittany. They've got her laid out on a bank of chairs; her nose isn't bleeding at all, now, and she just looks like she's sleeping, if it wasn't for the blood --

_Your face was different, then._

That was what she said. That Daniel -- whoever that is -- was always the same, but that Kurt's face had changed.

Maybe hers had too.

"This... This time machine thing," he says, looking over at Mike and Artie. "How does it -- Does her whole body go back, or is she just sort of seeing it, or is she like --"

"You can't take a person's whole body back in time," Mike says, making his way to the whiteboard in three long strides. "I mean, theoretically speaking you _can_ , but the electromagnetic energy required would be..." And then he actually starts writing down equations, as though anyone who isn't Artie (or apparently, Brittany) could understand them. "I mean, it's a lot. Like, a lot. More than what it takes to power this school, this city. Maybe, if you took, like what it takes to power all of Ohio for a couple of days, you could move something a little bit, a few nanoseconds forward or back, but... But if you forget about moving a physical body, and start thinking about consciousness, then you can --"

"How do you even _know_ all of this?" Sam asks.

Kurt ignores him, turns to Blaine. Blaine's still staring at the creepy woman dressed like Stevie Nicks who's still watching from the corner of the room; Kurt has to tug on his sleeve to get his attention. "The choir room," he says. "Three days ago. Brittany had a nose bleed; she said something about --"

"California," Blaine finishes, attention solely on Kurt now. "It was the first time you saw the ocean, but you don't remember it. You just remember a little girl --"

"-- with a nosebleed."

Blaine's hand slips into Kurt's, squeezing tightly; he presses up closer. "But Kurt," he says, more softly. "That was... That was years ago. Why... Why would Brittany..."

"Because she's lost control of it," the creepy British Stevie Nicks woman says, mournfully, from the corner. "Just like my son did."

 

_May 2010_

 

"I don't want you to go," Brittany says, and Daniel sighs. He doesn't want to go either, not really, but there's a part of him...

He saw something. He doesn't remember what it was, what he saw, but there was something. And it was wrong. And he even knows why, he was _told_ \--

And sitting here, with Brittany, he can almost remember what it was, but it's only almost and he's tired of almost.

"Britt," he says, and looks at her, and sighs again. "C'mere. Just for a second."

She obediently unfolds from her chair, stands up and trudges over to him. She's wearing her planning hat again, the white one with the pom pom on top and the knitted flaps over her ears and the long strings; he wonders how she was planning to talk him out of leaving. She always does have the most unusual plans.

"Sit down," he says, and she perches on the edge of the coffee table, long legs splayed off to the side. He doesn't quite remember when she got so tall, and sometimes that worries him, because usually he remembers everything about Brittany. But his caretaker, whatever her name is, told him once that that's the way of things, with children. They grow and grow and no one ever notices the change until it's too late. So he tries not to be too bothered by it anymore.

"Britt," he says again, and reaches out, and tugs on the pom-pom of her planning hat. "I have to go. Where I'm going... I can't explain it, not really. But I think... I think I've been there. Before. Or something. And I don't remember -- I don't remember a lot of things. But maybe, maybe if I go... Maybe I'll start to remember things, then."

"You don't have to remember everything," Brittany argues, slumping backwards. "I don't remember everything either, and you've always said it was okay to not remember everything."

"Well, I don't need to remember everything, Britt, but I don't want to _forget_ everything, either," Daniel points out. He takes one of Brittany's hands in his own. "What if I forgot you? I don't want to do that."

Brittany's face starts to crumple up, like she's about to cry. "But... but you _can't_ go," she says. "You can't leave me. You're the only one... You're the only one who knows."

"Knows what, Brittany?" Daniel asks, because he's honestly confused.

"That I'm not stupid," she whispers, and with her free hand she wipes at the tears starting to spill down her face. "You're the only grownup who doesn't think I'm stupid. Even my parents -- Even Eloise --"

"Oh, Britt," Daniel sighs, and he tugs on her hand and pulls her in close for a hug. He doesn't forget Brittany, but he forgets, sometimes, how other people see Brittany. Everything they miss, or pretend not to understand, pretend _she_ doesn't understand. It's the one real difference between them, that no one ever sees that side of her.

He does. He doesn't know why or how, but he does.

Brittany cries into his shirt, tears soaking through the fabric, still talking between sobs. "Even Mr. Schuester thinks I'm stupid and he actually thought wigs would help us win Sectionals and also Santana says he has the worst Spanish accent ever but he rolls his eyes at me every time I answer a question and I'm just really tired of everyone thinking I'm stupid all the time except for Mike and Santana but Mike doesn't talk to people and when Santana tries people just think she's being bitchy and I just need someone --"

"I'll come back," Daniel says. "I promise you, I'll come back." But he can't promise that, not really, so he tries something else. "And hey, maybe you'll find a teacher who understands you. Someone who realizes just how smart you really are."

Brittany sniffles into the collar of his shirt. "Am I smart, Daniel?" she asks, and that's about the worst question she could ever ask and he hugs her tighter. "Am I really?"

"You're a genius, Britt," he promises her, and that at least, is true. He doesn't know a lot anymore, not as much as he used to, but he knows that. "You are, and someday.... Someone's going to see it. I promise you. Someday, someone will see it."

 

_January 6th, 2011_

 

Holly wants, very very badly, to know what Juliet is doing. She wants to get right in there and put a gun to Juliet's head and tell her to fix whatever the hell is wrong. Whatever Juliet did -- although, judging by the weird math stuff scribbled on the board and the guilty look on Artie's face and the way Mike keeps hissing "I can't believe you let her --" it's actually possible, just possible, that this isn't Juliet's fault.

But Holly wants it to be. Jesus, she wants it to be Juliet's fault. Any excuse to leap in and start bashing Juliet's head against the floor, any excuse for this to not be happening, for it to not be _real_. Because she knows where this ends. She doesn't know how they're going to get there, not yet, but she already knows where this ends.

An Island. A room. And Ben trapped inside.

If there was anything Holly could do to stop it, anything at all...

But there's nothing, not yet, so she stands and holds onto Santana Lopez, and tries to keep her from falling apart, and tries to keep her from leaping forward and clawing Juliet's eyes out until after the examination is done.

(When it's done, though.)

"I don't understand," Will says, probably for the fifteenth time that day. "Is it a seizure -- Did she hit her head, or --"

Juliet looks up at him, mouth twisted wryly. "You mean you haven't heard about the time machine yet?"

Will shakes his head. "Juliet," he says. "Come on. You can't really -- I mean, _Brittany_?"

Santana tenses up under Holly's arm, all quivering rage, and Holly tightens her grip on Santana's shoulders to keep her in place. As much as Holly empathizes, this is a moment for words, not violence.

Fortunately, Holly's always had more than enough words for everyone. "Do you know what the Valenzetti Equation is, Will?" she asks.

Will turns to look at her, puzzled. He shakes his head. "I... I have no idea," he admits.

"Yeah, neither do I." Holly turns back to Brittany, still laid out motionless on those chairs. "But Brittany does. Brittany... Brittany knows a lot of things that other people don't. Things she can't really explain that well to most people. Ben gets it, or at least he gets it better than the rest of us. That's why he hand-picked her for the academic decathalon team. Because he... He gets it. He gets her."

There's a pause, and then that Eloise woman says, "He always was good with children."

And that's what's going to bring him down, and it's so fucking unfair that Holly has to turn her eyes to the ceiling and breathe deeply so she doesn't burst into tears or start kicking chairs or bludgeoning people to death.

In the quiet, she can hear Blaine sniffling, and she knows he's thinking the same thing she is.

This isn't fucking fair. It's not fair. At all.

 

_October 2010_

 

The first time the Brainiacs meet, Brittany is all smiles and confidence. She answers every question Ben throws her way (and some that are directed towards other people), and although she isn't always right, there's something interesting about the answers she chooses, what they suggest about the way her mind works in general. She has a fascinating, unusual intelligence. Ben has never seen anything quite like it, and he's eager to discover more.

Which is why he's so disappointed that she is completely silent for their second meeting. Even when he lobs a softball about the Casimir effect at her (and what a group of students he has, when he can consider the Casimir effect a softball question), she just shrugs and leaves Mike to answer for her. And Mike tries his best, but Ben knows -- alll of them know -- that Brittany could have done it better.

But for some reason, she's chosen not to.

Ben would never force Brittany to stay with the Brainiacs if she's really unhappy. Even if she's simply overbooked, exhausted -- she does take part in quite a few extracurriculars, after all, and perhaps one more is one too many. And if so, if that's really the case, he'll let her go. But if there's something he can change, something he can fix --

"Brittany," he says, as she and the other students gather their things. "Can I talk to you?"

Mike and Tina look back at her over their shoulders as they leave; Artie pats her on the wrist and says, "I'll wait in the hall," before following Mike and Tina out of the room.

Brittany just stands there, staring at her sneakers, one hand on the strap of her backpack. "Am I being fired from Brainiacs?" she asks, after a little bit.

Ben's instinct is to say _no_ , to reassure her, but there's something he's missing; there's more information that he hasn't gotten. He perches on the corner of a nearby table, lowering himself just enough to be below Brittany's eyeline, folds his hands in front of him, and asks "Now why would I want to fire you from the Brainiacs, Brittany?"

She shifts from foot to foot, clutches tight to the strap of her backpack, doesn't look him in the eye. "Because I'm stupid?" she says, her voice sounding a little shaky. "Because I can't do this, because I'm not -- Because I'm not like Artie, or Mike, or Tina. Because I shouldn't be here."

It is exactly what Ben was afraid of hearing, and the truth is that he doesn't quite know how to handle it. Emma might, or perhaps Mr. Schuester -- he's everyone's favorite teacher, of course, and surely there has to be a reason for that. Ben has his strengths -- he's a better disciplinarian, and his students' test scores speak for themselves. But he doesn't _relate_ as well as other teachers do.

But Brittany needs him, now, and so he'll do his best.

"Well," he says, finally. "You're certainly not like Artie, or Mike, or Tina. In fact, I think I can safely say that I haven't had any students quite like you, Brittany. But I think that's exactly why you _should_ be here. You're... different. Special. And not -- I know a lot of your classmates probably make jokes about the special kids and special schools and special busses and all of that, but there's nothing wrong with you, Brittany. There's nothing wrong with learning things a little differently. And you're not stupid. And you can do this."

She doesn't look up; he can't quite read her stance, can't figure out if she believes him or not.

He decides to act as though she does, and see what happens next.

"Now, tell me. How would you compute a Casimir force without reference to zero-point energies?"

Brittany looks up at him shyly, shifts from foot to foot again, and says, "By finding the relativistic van der Waals force?"

Ben breathes, slowly, in and out. It's working. "And if you did want to find the zero-point energy of an electromagnetic field inside a metal cavity, you would --"

She actually smiles a little. "Sum the energies of the standing waves of the cavity?"

Ben smiles back at her. They're so close, now. "And out of all the students who have ever made fun of you for being special," he says, "how many of them do you think could answer either of those questions?"

"Zero," she says, and this time, there's no questioning lilt in her voice. Just confidence.

And perhaps Ben isn't so bad at this after all.

"That's right," he says. "Zero. Because you, Brittany, are special. And there's nobody like you. And _that_ is why I would never, ever fire you from the Brainiacs. We need you. Okay?"

"Okay," she says.

And then she does something wholly unexpected. She reaches out, and wraps her arms around Ben, and actually hugs him.

He's so surprised that it takes him a moment to realize that he should probably be hugging her back (and by the time he's wondering whether or not he should be hugging or even touching a female student at all, she's already let go of him.)

"Thanks, Mr. A," she says. "See you next week?"

"I'm looking forward to it," he says, and watches her go with a smile on his face.

Perhaps he's not so bad at this as he thought he was.

 

_January 6th, 2011_

 

Will Schuester has no idea what's going on.

The whole thing has the surrealistic quality of a dream. The mysterious woman in the shawl, Brittany lying prone upon a row of chairs, Mike and Artie arguing about time travel. Kurt, talking about California and nosebleeds. Holly and her Valenzetti equations. Dr. Daniel Faraday.

And just when it's all about too much to take, Ben Anderson comes limping into the room -- no wheelchair, not even a cane -- just Burt Hummel on one side of him and Carole Hudson-Hummel on the other, the two of them practically holding him up. The very moment Blaine looks up and sees his father, he breaks away from Kurt and starts hobbling across the room. Ben shakes Carole and Burt off, even with his left leg still dragging on every other step, and the two of them meet in the middle, clinging to each other and holding each other up.

Burt watches them for a moment, then sighs and makes his way over to Will. He looks more... more _exhausted_ than Will has ever seen him, and Will has no idea what's happening, but he has a sense that something incredibly important has just been lost.

"This is happening," Will says, as Blaine and his father separate and, with their arms wrapped around each other for balance, slowly make their way over to where Brittany is only just now starting to stir. "Isn't it? This is really happening."

"Yeah," Burt says. "Yeah, it is."

"You forgot your wheelchair," Brittany murmurs, as Blaine helps his father into a chair next to her. "That's okay. I forget mine, too, sometimes."

Ben reaches out and takes Brittany's hand. "I didn't know you needed a wheelchair, Brittany," he says, softly; his voice is surprisingly choked.

For just a moment, Will feels absolutely, crushingly guilty. Brittany is one of his kids. How is it that she has this whole other world, this whole other life where she's a genius, and Will never knew, and yet Ben Anderson did?

"It was so I would understand what it was like to be Artie," Brittany explains. "I guess that was a while ago. I think that was a while ago. I don't always know when I am anymore. I move around too much. I get confused."

"It's January, Brittany," Kurt says, crouching down next to Ben's chair. "January 6th, 2011."

"Oh," Brittany says. Then her breath hitches, and she says, "I'm sorry. I thought I could fix it, but then I couldn't ever go back far enough so I kept trying and now..."

"It's all right, Brittany," Ben says. Then he turns away from Brittany, and although Will can't be entirely sure he would swear that Ben is looking directly at the woman in the shawl when he says, "I think you did exactly what you were supposed to do."

"This is it," Carole says, falling into line besides her husband; Will glances down and sees her reaching out, him reaching back. Emma, he thinks. He misses Emma so badly right now. "Isn't it? It's over."

"Yeah," Burt says, squeezing his wife's hand. "Yeah, it is."

Will wants to know what is over, but at the same time he doesn't, really. So he stands, and watches, and wonders when his carefully-ordered world went so horribly off the rails.

 

_???_

 

She doesn't remember hugging Kurt, but she is, arms wrapped around him tight, face pressed into his shoulder. She's been crying, but she doesn't remember that, either. Just Daniel, and sitting down together, and the journal, and --

"I think that was it," she says, but her voice is muffled by Kurt's shoulder, so she pulls back and says it again. "I think that was it. I think... I think that was the last one."

Kurt looks at her, even cups her face in his hands like he can read things in her eyes (except maybe he can; some people can do things like that, or at least that's what they do in books). Finally he asks, "So. You're okay now?"

And she is. She'd sort of forgotten how okay felt, actually, but now that she's here... "Yeah," she says. "I'm okay. I'm where I'm supposed to be, and I'm okay."

"Good," Daniel says. "That's good. Because we've got work to do."

 

_January 6th, 2011_

 

"We need to talk," Mike says, as soon as they're out of the choir room.

The last thing Artie wants to do is talk. To anyone. "I don't need you to tell me I messed up, okay?" he snaps. "I get it. I should never have let Brittany talk me into helping her build the machine -- I should've realized that she --"

"I think Mr. Anderson was right," Mike says, stepping in front of Artie's chair and forcing him to brake hard to keep from ramming him. "I think this is what Brittany was supposed to do. And I think I know why."

"Does this have anything to do with you suddenly knowing all about time travel?" Tina asks. "Because that was a little unexpected."

"I..." Mike shakes his head. "Look, I... That journal, that Brittany has? It's not the first time I've seen proof that time travel is maybe actually a viable thing. See... There was this group of scientists, back in the seventies. The DHARMA Initiative. It was mostly, like, a U of M thing, but --"

"But they had some other bases."

Mike straightens up so fast it looks like it hurts, and Tina just stares at Rachel with her jaw dropped open.

If it bothers Rachel, she doesn't show it. She just keeps walking towards them, Jesse St. James trailing after her like a psychotic, egg-throwing puppy. "One of those bases is called the Lamp Post -- that's where that woman in the shawl comes from. Eloise Hawking. I don't think she's part of the DHARMA Initiative; I'm not sure who she works for. But she controls the Lamp Post, which is the station that allowed the DHARMA Initiative to find their main base of operations."

"The Island," Mike finishes, staring at Rachel. "Which they chose because of its unique electromagnetic properties, which would allow them to perform experiments they couldn't do in the outside world."

"Like... time travel?" Artie asks, and Mike just nods.

"So..." Tina blinks a few times, shakes her head, tries to process it. "If Brittany is supposed to go to this magical electromagnetic Island, what exactly is she supposed to do when she gets there?"

Artie looks at Rachel; Rachel looks at Mike.

"That's why I need to talk to you guys," he says. "Come on. I have something to show you."  



	18. Turning Tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has a choice to make. Some are easier than others.

January 6th, 2011

 

They pull into the driveway just as Sayid drags someone out of the house -- a tallish man, in a jacket that's too light for the weather, straight hair hanging into his eyes. He's familiar-looking, familiar enough, anyway, but it takes Blaine a moment to realize just who it is. When he does, he freezes, one hand on the handle of the door.

He knows he shouldn't be surprised, but he is, a little. Surprised and hurt. But this is what his father does, has always done -- trying to protect him, to keep him as far from the danger as possible. He shouldn't be surprised.

More to the point, he _can't_ be surprised, not now. He has to be calm. He has to be in control of the situation.

He opens the door and lowers himself carefully down from Kurt's SUV, suppressing a flinch as his injured leg takes his weight. Calm, he has to be calm, has to be --

Ethan calls out, "Hey, there, Blaine. How was school?"

Blaine just breathes deeply through his nose, and goes to help his father down from the car.

(There's a moment, when Blaine's hands lock onto his father's elbows to brace and their eyes meet for a second, and Blaine can read the guilt there. But his father doesn't apologize -- not here, not where Ethan can still see them. And it shouldn't sting. After everything else that's happened today, after everything that's ended, it shouldn't matter at all. But it does, a little bit, and Blaine has to work very, very hard to keep the hurt from showing. He has to be calm.)

Once his father's safely on the ground again, Blaine wraps an arm around his waist and starts leading him towards the house.

Behind them, Kurt is half-carrying a mostly-conscious Brittany, fussing over her like he's her parent and not her Constant; her real parents are trailing behind, curiously distant in a way that probably has nothing (probably has _everything_ ) to do with Brittany's own disconnect with the people around her. Santana and Finn are somewhere near; Burt and Carole too. And Eloise, somewhere, watching.

Blaine keeps his focus on his father, on the heavy weight of him dragging on Blaine's shoulder, his staggering steps and the slightly labored rasp of his breathing. He's hurting badly -- probably a seven or an eight -- but he won't let Blaine give him his pills. Won't want to be groggy or incoherent, not for this. But the pain itself is a distraction, pulling his attention away from where it needs to be. Blaine knows, because he's hurting, too; he's done too much without his cane, and the simmering ache in his still-healing muscles is getting worse with every step, especially now that he's carrying his father's weight as well as his own, but he pushes it back. He has to be just that little bit stronger, now; he can't let his father see him hurting. He can't be someone his father needs to protect. Not right now.

He opens the door, and helps his father inside. "Dad," he murmurs, as soon as they're in the house. "Can we --"

"Of course," his father says, and Blaine steers them past the living room.

Michael and Hurley are already in the kitchen, talking quietly -- Michael's holding ice to his head; Hurley looks mostly okay. They fall silent as Blaine helps his father into the room.

"Did you --" Michael asks, but Blaine stops him before he can finish.

"Could we have a minute, please?" he asks, and he's almost proud of how level his voice is.

There's a pause as Hurley and Michael look at each other, and then Michael says, "Yeah. Sure. Sure thing," and he and Hurley get up and leave.

Once they're gone, Blaine helps his father into a chair, then pulls up a chair next to him.

"I suppose I should've told you that Ethan was here," his dad says. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Blaine's pretty sure his dad knows what he's about to say and is trying to stall. "But I figured that seven people was more than enough to handle him, and honestly I just didn't want you to miss any more school, after --"

"Dad," Blaine says. He scoots his chair a little closer to his father's, reaches out and clasps his father's hand in his. His father's grip is tight, almost clinging. He _knows_ \-- he has to; he's always read Blaine well -- and Blaine just doesn't see the point in stalling anymore. "I'm going with them."

"Blaine." His father reaches out, takes his other hand as well. "You don't even know if --"

"Yes, I _do_." His voice goes sharp, cracks a little; he has to duck his head and take a deep breath to try to calm himself back down again. "I know what Eloise is going to say. I knew... The moment I saw her, I knew. She's going to say that Brittany has to go to the Island so it can heal her, and Kurt has to go because he's her Constant. And she's probably going to say that you and I have to go do because... whatever, but even if she doesn't, Dad. I'm still going."

Something in his dad's face shatters, then, and Blaine hates himself for that, but it still isn't enough to change his mind. Because it's not a lie; he knew, the moment he saw Eloise in that hallway. He's going back. They both are.

" _Why?_ " his father demands. "After everything, why would you just --"

Blaine forces himself not to look away, to meet his father's eyes steadily, without fear. "Because they would go for me," he says, and his voice is still a little shaky but he thinks -- he knows -- his father understands why. "And because... Because I know you. And I know that if I asked you to stay with me, you would, but -- But you would want to go for them, too. Because you care about them."

"I care about _you_ ," his father insists, eyes filling up with tears.

"I know you do," Blaine tells him. "But you care about them, too. And I care about them. And I can't... We can't let them go alone, Dad."

"Brittany's parents might not even --" Blaine knows his father doesn't even believe himself anymore, but he understands why he has to try. This is everything they never meant to do, and it's happening, and Blaine's scared and he knows his father is too. But he also knows that he's right. This is what they have to do -- for Kurt, for Brittany. For themselves. "And Burt; I'm sure he won't --"

Blaine can only shake his head. "Brittany's parents would put her in a cannon and fire her at the sun if Eloise told them it was a good idea," he says. "And Kurt... If he has to empty his dad's bank accounts and steal a car and... whatever he had to do, to follow Brittany. He'll do it. Because that's who he is."

Blaine's father looks at him for a long time, reading him, and Blaine tries very hard to keep any doubt from showing. It must work, because eventually his father sighs and squeezes his hands. "And you'd help him," he says. "Wouldn't you? If Kurt wanted to go, you'd help him leave."

"I have to, Dad," Blaine says. "He wouldn't... He needs someone to help him. And Finn might try, or Santana, but they don't know what they're doing. They wouldn't survive. But I..." He shrugs, musters the best smile he has, which isn't very much of one. "I learned from the best. I could help him. And I... I have to try, Dad. I'm sorry. But I have to."

"Well." Blaine's father doesn't smile back. "Thank you for letting me know before you started your life of crime."

"I thought you'd appreciate it." And because the conversation is over, because it's safe, Blaine lets himself have his moment of doubt. He lets himself ask, "Dad... If I'm wrong about you; if I'm wrong about what you want, then --"

His father finally musters a small smile. "No," he says. "No, you're not wrong. I --" And then his father looks away, briefly. "I had thought... But, of course, you'd never let me go without you."

" _No_." It's too quick, too pained, and Blaine knew, of course he knew that his father would do something exactly like this, but still -- "Don't even -- I won't let you go without me. I _won't_."

"Then I won't try." Blaine's father tugs at their joined hands, and finally Blaine just tips, letting his head fall into his father's shoulder and his father's arms wrap around him. Their knees graze. "Together?"

"Together," Blaine agrees, and wraps his arms around his father, and holds on to him as tight as he can.

 

*

 

That creepy Eloise chick tells them she'll let them think it over and then sweeps out of his house, Brittany's parents trailing in her wake. They don't even go upstairs to check on their daughter one last time before she leaves them, possibly forever, and --

The problem is, Burt's learned to accept too much. Six months ago, he would've just known. All of this would be a lie, a fairytale. Some bullshit story someone was spinning to get something over on him. Six months ago, there'd be no reason to believe in any of it. Time travel and magic Islands and whatever the Hell a Constant is and Brittany's weirdo parents talking about how exciting it would be for her to finally come home. Six months ago, he'd have kicked them all out of his house. Six months ago --

Six months ago, he'd still be the man who loved Annie. The man with a shoebox in his closet full of old pictures and pamphlets, an Apollo bar wrapper and a patch that said DHARMA on it.

Six months ago, he might've fought harder, but he still would've accepted it in the end.

The thing about fairytales is they start to look pretty goddamn real once you've been inside one long enough.

Still, he appreciates it when Sun finally asks, "This Eloise. How do we know she's telling the truth?"

"We don't," Ben says. "At least, not about everything. But. Artie's confirmed that there really was a time machine, as unbelievable as that sounds. Burt, you've said that you remember meeting Brittany and Daniel in California, when Kurt was young. We have the journal. I --" He shakes his head, steeples his hands in front of him. "I can't say for certain that the Island can fix whatever's wrong with Brittany. I can't even really say whether or not we'll be able to get there. But I don't know if I want to risk being wrong, either. Not if... And not after everything she's risked for myself, for Blaine."

Blaine, sitting curled up on the floor at his father's feet, nods solemnly. Burt doesn't know when either of them came to this decision, but he's pretty sure they did it before Eloise started her little speech about Ajira Flight 316. Then again, he guesses ten years of running has taught them to see the writing on the wall without anyone having to read it out for them.

In a way, Burt feels a little guilty over it. He'd forgotten that, in trying to help Ben and Blaine, he'd leave them feeling obligated to help him.

"I'm going," Kurt says from his spot on the floor next to Blaine, and Blaine reaches out to clasp his hand, silent backup. Kurt looks up at his father, jaw firmly set, and adds, "And you can't stop me, Dad. Not unless you board me up in the house and chain the doors shut and even then I'll get out somehow. Brittany needs me. And Blaine needs me too. And I'm not staying here, Dad. I'm _not_."

His voice doesn't crack until the very end; Burt's impressed despite himself. The thing is, if he's really being honest, he wouldn't want to hear his son say anything else. He raised Kurt to be brave, to be strong, to be loyal. Never thought he'd regret it until today.

Burt looks over at Ben, who's shaking his head minutely. These kids of theirs. Should've raised them to be more selfish.

"If Brittany's parents wind up going with whatever that Ms. Hawking is selling, and chances are they will," he says. "But that's it. Finn, Santana, Wes --" He looks around at the other kids. "I'm sorry. I know you want to help, but it's bad enough we're risking three of you guys. You... You need to stay. Here. Where it's safe."

"But --" Finn protests, but Carole shakes her head.

"I'm sorry," she says. "But Burt's right. I don't really want anyone getting on that plane, but..." She looks over at Ben, then takes a deep breath and sighs it out slow. "I can't stop everyone, Finn. But I can, and I _will_ , stop you."

Santana opens her mouth, but Wes elbows her, and she falls silent.

"But you're going," Michael says, looking at Ben. "You and your son." Then he turns to Burt. "And you. And your son."

"Yeah," Burt says, softly. He knows it hasn't really hit him yet, where he's going and what could happen. And he knows that when it does, it's going to be a whole different ball game.

But he knows that he's not gonna change his mind, and he knows that Kurt won't change his, either. For better or for worse, this is the story they're in now.

"If you don't want to go back," Ben adds, and rests his hand on his son's gelled head. His eyes stay on Michael, but that doesn't mean Michael's the only person he's talking to. "No one's going to force you. This is your choice."

"I'm going," Sun says, to absolutely no one's surprise. "My husband is on that Island. I'm not leaving him behind."

"Yeah, me too." Then Hurley makes a face, like he's just realized what he's said, and adds, "I mean, not for my husband. 'Cause I don't have a husband. And if I did it wouldn't be Jin, 'cause he's, like, taken. And stuff. And I'm kind of not into dudes. No offense."

Blaine looks up at him for a moment, and then for the first time in what seems like days, he actually cracks a smile and looks down again, shaking his head.

"Just, I..." Hurley shrugs. "I mean, Walt told me I needed to stick with Ben, so. I'm sticking with Ben."

There's a bit of an awkward pause, and then Ben says, softly, "Thank you, Hugo."

"And Sayid?" Sun asks. "And Ana, Ethan, Juliet. Are they to have a choice as well?"

"Ethan will go," Ben says. "Obviously. He orchestrated this just to get back; he's not going to change his mind now. As far as the others go --" Ben just shrugs. "I wouldn't say I'm particularly fond of Ana or Juliet, or at least I'm not a fan of their actions, but I'm not forcing anyone to go that Island. They'll have their choice, as will Sayid."

"I'll talk to him," Holly says, from her place behind Ben's chair. She's been silent most of the night, staring down at the top of Ben's head like she's trying to memorize every single strand of hair on it. There's a lot unspoken between them -- Burt's not dumb; he's seen it from the start. But it's getting to the time where it's speak now or forever hold your peace. "I've got guard duty coming up anyway. I'll -- I'll talk to him. And Ana, too."

Ben turns to look back at Holly and says, "Before you do. I'd like to speak to you. In private." Which, hopefully, is a sign he's realized it's time to get some things said, too. Or he's hatching a plan. Burt's not sure which he'd prefer, really.

Then Ben looks to Burt, and adds, "If we're done here?"

Burt looks around at the room, sees everyone else looking at him, too. He's not sure when this became his meeting, but. He guesses he can end it. "Yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah. I think we're done here."

"Dad," Blaine says, looking up at his father. "I'm gonna... I want to talk to Kurt, if that's..."

"Of course," Ben says, with a soft, sad smile, and watches Kurt help Blaine up, watches him wrap his arm around Blaine's waist and lead him towards the stairs.

Then he glances back at Holly again, and she steers him towards his own first-floor bedroom.

 

*

 

"I know what you're going to say," Holly says, as soon as the door has closed behind them. "But if you really think I'm just going to stay behind and let you --"

Her voice is already rising up sharp and piercing; Ben keeps his low and controlled, to compensate. "Holly," he says. "Sit down."

"After _everything_ \--"

"Holly."

She falls silent, and after one last, mutinous glance, she sinks down on the corner of his bed, and Ben wheels himself over to her, lets himself lay a hand on her knee.

"Listen to me," he says, softly. "I have known Charles Widmore since I was twelve years old. I know what he will do, and what he won't do, and I can promise you this -- Charles is not going to be on that plane. Ethan trusts the Island; he'll take the risk. But Charles... Charles won't. If he's going to try to return to the Island, and I am positive that he will, he'll have to have worked out some way of tracking the plane, so that when it does make it to the Island, he'll be able to follow. I need you to find out what his plan is, so you can do the same."

Holly studies his face, breathes in, breathes out. Calming herself, or steeling herself, one of the two. "You want me to come get you," she says.

"I've agreed to go back to the Island," Ben says. "That doesn't mean I intend on staying. And Blaine... Burt, Kurt, Brittany -- No. We'll go, we'll fix whatever's wrong with Brittany, we'll do what we have to, but then... I need you, Holly. I need you to come take us home. Will you do that for me?"

He's fully expecting her to say something glib, something like, "I thought you'd never ask," (it is, after all, sort of her trademark). What he's not expecting is for her to just look at him for a moment longer, and then sort of... lunge, almost, falling forward into him like there's a gravitational pull, and --

Her arms are tight around his neck; there's a waxy taste from the remnants of her lipstick, and when her lips part, her breath tastes a little sour, like old coffee. His glasses dig into his cheek (and probably into hers as well) and the whole thing is desperate, despairing, painful.

Wonderful.

They break apart eventually, but not by very much; Holly keeps her forehead pressed to his, arms still tight around his neck, her body leaning over his, caging him in. They're both panting for air, breath mingling.

"Do me a favor?" Holly asks, finally.

"Anything," Ben says, and in that moment, he absolutely means it.

"If you see a guy named Desmond on the Island," she says. "Grab him for me, will you? Because once I find you -- and I am going to find you, Ben -- I don't want to have to waste time looking for him. And I feel like Penny'd be pretty mad if I left her boyfriend behind to save mine, so."

"I'll do my best," Ben says, and Holly rewards him with another kiss. This one is softer, sweeter, gentler. A promise, instead of a plea.

"I will find you," Holly says, clinging tight to him, and Ben finally lets himself give into the urge to rest his hands on her waist and pull her, very carefully, into his lap. She goes without protest. "I promise. I will find you."

"I know you will," he says, and holds on to her. "I know."

 

*

 

They don't really talk much.

They lay in Kurt's bed, fully clothed, facing each other, their hands clasped between them. There's so much fear in Blaine's eyes that it's hard for Kurt to look at him; there's so much love there that it's almost impossible for him to look away.

Kurt has a feeling that his face probably isn't that different from Blaine's.

"I would've gone with you anyway," he whispers, unwilling to raise his voice any more than that, to disturb the silence. "Even if... I would've gone with you."

"I know," Blaine replies, equally soft. He leans in, presses his lips to Kurt's, the sweetest and softest of kisses.

When he pulls back again, Kurt takes a deep breath, and says, "It's... It's funny, really. I didn't even really talk to her until last year. And then Sue told her to join the glee club for some weird spying thing, and then... There she was. And she taught me the 'Single Ladies' dance and she never asked to be Beyonce even though she probably should've, and she was... She was my friend. She even..." He has to laugh a little, remembering. "She was my first kiss. Because I thought maybe, just to be sure, I should try, so... It was really hard to break up with her, actually. She..." His eyes spill over; Blaine reaches up with his thumb and wipes a few tears away. "I didn't want to be with her, like that. But I think I loved her a little bit, anyway. Not like I love you, because I do love you, and I know it's weird timing but I honestly mean it; I really do --"

" _Kurt_ ," Blaine says, and kisses him again, and Kurt tastes tears and he doesn't know whose they are but he supposes it doesn't really matter. "I love you, too."

"Okay," Kurt says, and Blaine presses their foreheads together, rubs the tip of his nose against Kurt's. "Okay. But I... My point is, Brittany..." But the words aren't there, or maybe they are; maybe one of them is. _Constant_. But right now, Kurt's not so sure how he feels about that one, so he leaves it unsaid. "It doesn't make sense, you know? But it... But it does. It really does."

Blaine reaches up with one hand, nudging the back of Kurt's head until he takes the hint and lowers his forehead to Blaine's shoulder. "I love you," he says, softly. "I love you and we'll figure this out. And she'll be okay again. I promise you."

Kurt's breath hitches in his chest; he can feel himself shaking. "I'm so sorry, Blaine," he whispers, and Blaine lets out a soft, pained sound and strokes his hair soothingly. "I asked you to stay and now... I should've let you go, I should've --"

"It's okay, Kurt," Blaine says, and it's not, how can it be, when -- "It's gonna be okay."

And Kurt wants to say, as he's heard Blaine say so many times, that it's _not_ okay. That none of this is okay. But Blaine needs Kurt to believe him, now, or else he'll fall apart too, and Kurt can't do that to him. He can't.

So he just cries into Blaine's shirt, and lets Blaine hold him and stroke his hair and tell him that it's all going to be all right, even though it's not.

 

*

 

As prisons go, Ben Linus's basement actually isn't half bad. Or, Burt Hummel's basement. Or whoever's basement. Whatever. It's not a fancy hotel in L.A., like the place where Widmore kept her, but it's not a polar bear cage, either. It's finished, at least -- it's not cold cinderblock and a dirt floor and a weird musty smell -- and granted the decor is a little dated, but.

And the best part is, they're keeping Ethan somewhere completely different, so Ana doesn't have to listen to him talk.

Granted, he was pretty quiet after Ben Linus pimp-slapped him and threatened to have him shot by a pissed-off Iraqi, so.

Score two for Benjamin Linus.

So it's not the first prison Ana's ever been in, and it's not the worst either. But it never really gets any easier. Sitting, waiting. Wondering what the hell is going on in the world outside her -- wondering what Ethan was talking about during that whole surreal scene in the living room, with the Brainiacs and that Britney chick and whatever else got Ben Linus so riled up. Wondering where everyone's been since then.

In other words, it's kind of a relief when the blonde in the short short skirt and high high heels comes slinking down the stairs at her. Although not so much that Ana's going to be nice to her right away. She is in prison, after all. She has the right to say things like, "Who the hell are you?"

"My name's Holly," the woman says. "Holly Holliday. And yes, before you ask, that is my real name, not my stripper name. Besides, if I was a stripper, pretty sure I'd have more --" She gestures vaguely in the direction of her breasts. "I mean, they'd be fake of course, but still." Then she sits down on the corner of Whoever's orange plaid sofa, knees pressed together in a show of body language that is the exact opposite of her fake boobs demonstration, rests her folded hands demurely on her lap, and smiles at Ana. "So," she says. "I understand you struck a deal with Charles Widmore."

" _Do_ you," Ana says, raising an eyebrow at her. She thinks about sitting up straight, but she doesn't want Holly "Not A Stripper" Holliday to think she's that important, so she stays slouched in the opposite corner of the couch. "Out of curiosity, are you the good cop, the bad cop, or some schizophrenic combo of both?"

"You're the cop, Ana, not me," Holly says, blandly. "And schizophrenia doesn't work like that. But anyway. Michael seems to think that you were trying to protect Hurley, but I don't think you were. I think you were trying to save Zach and Emma. Just like you did when the plane first crashed, and you saw those two kids out there, alone in the water. Just like you promised you would after you got them both out again. Just like you've been doing ever since. Am I right?"

Ana's not a good enough liar to pretend that Holly hasn't struck gold her first time out (how the hell does she even know all this, anyway?), so she folds her arms across her chest and says nothing at all.

"I mean, I get it," Holly continues. "They're just kids. Someone has to look out for them. And I've already got a pretty good idea why you can't trust Ethan to do it. Or anyone else on that Island, really. I guess I'm just not sure why you'd think Charles Widmore is any better. I mean, the guy once ordered the murder of an infant. He's not exactly a friend to the children. Or even if he did actually decide to spare those two kids -- he does have a daughter of his own, maybe it's made him sentimental or whatever -- what makes you think his man Keamy's going to listen? I'm sure you've realized by now that Keamy's not exactly a nice person. And everything you've seen him do; trust me, he's done ten times worse before. Just think about what happened in Uganda." There's a pause, and then Holly adds, "You _do_ know what happened in Uganda, don't you?"

Ana doesn't know what happened in Uganda, and she's pretty sure she doesn't want to. "Look, what the hell do you want?" she asks. "You're here, you're talking at me, you want something. Just... tell me what it is, so I can say no and go back to counting the ceiling tiles, okay?"

Holly raises a prim eyebrow at her. "All right," she says, finally. "So here's the thing. Thirty-six hours from now, give or take, some of the people I care most about in this world are going to be stepping on a plane to Guam. And chances are, that plane is going to crash on a spooky magical Island that's already tortured more than its fair share of people. And someone is going to need to find that plane, find that Island, and bring them all home again."

"What makes you think I can help you do that?" Ana asks her.

"Because," Holly says. "Widmore's not getting on that plane. He never was. He, and Martin Keamy, and all their other friends, are following behind. Which means they have to have a way of keeping tabs on one of the passengers on the plane. Which means they're keeping tabs on you. I need to know how."

"So you can follow me, too?" Ana asks, but the edge is softening out of her voice. "Is that the plan?"

Holly just shrugs. "I think it's as close as we're gonna get," she says. Then she adds -- "Ana. I can't promise you I'm gonna be able to get Zach and Emma off the Island. I'm going to do my best, but there's no guarantees. But. I can promise you that I'm actually going to try. Do you really think Charles Widmore can say the same?"

Ana hesitates for just a second, even though the truth is that she already knows the answer.

 

*

 

She's half expecting Finn to kick her out of the room -- it is his, even though Brittany's the one lying in between his cowboy sheets right now, but instead he just pulls the chair away from his desk, drags it over to the bed, sits down.

Santana looks at him for a second, then sighs and looks away again because she can't face the sympathy right now. "I don't want you to tell me it's going to be okay," she says. "I don't want you to tell me that Mr. A is gonna take care of everything, or that Kurt and Blaine are going to take care of everything. I don't want to hear it. In fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't talk at all."

So Finn doesn't say anything. He just reaches out and takes Santana's hand. Which is actually worse, but of course Santana never told him he couldn't, and his hand is big and warm and a little rough and somehow she can't quite bring herself to pull away.

So she breathes, and she lets him hold her hand, and with her free hand she wipes away a few tears that hopefully Finn will pretend he hasn't seen, and then she goes back to stroking loose strands of blonde hair off Brittany's forehead.

"She said I was her Constant," Santana says, after the sound of Finn's breathing gets too much to bear (which takes about ten seconds or so.) "She said... I had no idea what she was talking about, of course. I never do with her. She's... She's somewhere beyond. Always has been." She wipes her eyes again, because look at where that's gotten them all. "But I thought... I thought it meant I would always have her. That she wouldn't ever go someplace that I couldn't --"

She waits for Finn to say something. She doesn't know what it would be, just -- something. Like that just because Brittany's going doesn't mean she won't come back, or that maybe they can sneak onto the plane or something, or that they're going to steal a boat and go after them. But Finn doesn't say anything at all.

Of course, she did tell him not to talk.

What she didn't tell him was not to shift onto the bed and hug her, and after a few more seconds of silence, that's what he does. His long arms fold around her and pull her in close, and it's warm, and it's gentle, and it's _awful._

But she didn't tell him he couldn't hug her.

So she lets him, if only because she's crying too hard to push him away.

 

*

 

"Mr. Hummel said you wanted to talk to me," Juliet says, making her way slowly into the Hummel-Hudson kitchen. It's not bad, really. Somehow, someone's made the Hudsons' kitsch aesthetic work with Kurt Hummel's stark minimalism. Probably it was Kurt; Juliet doesn't know him the way Ben does, but it's obvious he has an eye for design. "I wasn't aware there was anything left that we hadn't already said."

Ben glances up at her. It would almost be intimidating, but he's got a little smudge on the corner of his glasses and his hair is just slightly mussed. Holly, if Juliet is any kind of judge. It would explain just why Miss Holliday came so close to beating the hell out of her. "Have a seat, Juliet," he says.

She looks at him for a second, and then she goes over to the kitchen table and has a seat right next to him.

"I never did ask you," he says, still watching her with those wide blue eyes, that little smudge on the corner of his glasses. "How is your sister? Rachel, isn't it? You did go see your sister, didn't you? When you left."

Juliet smiles at him, then shakes her head and turns away. There's a clock shaped like an owl, just above the stove. That has to be Carole's. "If by _seeing_ her you mean I sat in my car and watched her house until I got too paranoid about who might be following me... Then yes, Ben. I saw her."

He doesn't react. Of course he doesn't. "And?" he asks.

"She was... good," Juliet says, and smiles wider, her eyes still on the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. "She has a son."

"His name's Julian," Ben says, softly. Then, "I don't know what Ethan might have told you, Juliet, but. You don't have to get on that plane. Not if you don't want to."

Honestly, she has no idea why she wasn't expecting this. But her eyes well up with tears just the same, and she has to keep staring at the clock so Ben doesn't see. "How about you?" she asks. "Do you _have_ to get on the plane?"

He's quiet for a little while. Finally, he says, "Brittany's getting on that plane whether I do or don't. It's because of me that she --" When Juliet turns her head, Ben is staring resolutely at the refrigerator. "She's sixteen years old, Juliet."

The thing is, she was never totally acting, with Ben. There was always something about him. Mostly, it's this, this moment right here. And all the others like it. "This isn't your fault," she says, and remembers a time when she could've laid a hand over his. But that's over, now. He'll have to wait for Holly. Not that Juliet really expects she'll be that long in coming.

"That's not important," Ben says, and finally meets her eyes again. "What's important is that she needs me."

Juliet takes a deep breath, considers it, and finally cocks her head to the side and says, "She needs a doctor."

It actually takes Ben a second to get it, but she can see it, when it clicks. When he smiles back at her, she knows he's understood. "You're a fertility specialist, Juliet," he says, softly. "Are you sure you're qualified to treat time-travel induced memory problems?"

She shrugs. "If you manage to find someone better than me on short notice, then let me know," she says, and stand up. "In the meantime, I've got bags to pack."

His voice stops her just before she reaches the door.

"Juliet."

She turns, looks at him. Expectant.

So of course, he says, "Sayid took Ethan to your apartment. Apparently, he thought Ana would murder him if they were left alone together for too long, so. He's locked in the closet. You might want to feed him before you go to bed." There's a pause, and then he adds, "Or not. Consider it a suggestion."

"I'll think it over," Juliet tells him, and smiles at him one last time, and walks out of the kitchen.

 

*

 

"Tell me, Holly," Sayid says, hands folded on Ben Linus's kitchen table. It's been a very long day, and a much longer night, and he's no closer to making his mind up than he was before. "Do you really think this will work? That you'll be able to find the Island, somehow, to rescue... everyone?"

"I have to," she says, voice choked, and Sayid regrets that he ever asked. Not that he can take it back, of course. "I --" Holly shakes her head, and wipes at reddened eyes with the back of her hand. "Michael's agreed to come with me. And I have a feeling Carole's going to join up as soon as Burt's out of her hair; she's kind of sneaky like that. I just... I wanted to let you know that there's a third option. In case you weren't a fan of... you know. Going on the plane. Or _not_ going on the plane."

It is a kind thought, really. Sayid's just not sure if more options are what he needs right now. Still, he says "Thank you. I'll think it over."

Holly nods, sniffles, and nods again. When she stands, Sayid stands too.

"Holly," he says, and she pauses halfway through wrestling into her coat, glances up at him. "If anyone is going to find the Island, I'm certain it will be you."

She doesn't quite smile at him; she opens her mouth to speak and then, abruptly, turns and hurries out of the kitchen.

By the time Sayid's made his mind up to follow her, the front door is already slamming shut. He sighs and sinks back into his chair.

He's spent a fair amount of time in this house since Christmas, but he's yet to truly get used to it, to how domestic it all is. Even at the Others' compound, with those mustard yellow houses, there was always something. The food in its white cans with black DHARMA Initiative logos. Shotguns hidden in piano benches. Secret doors and secret rooms. But this house... This house is perfectly ordinary. From the mats in the bathrooms to the well-worn sofa in the living room to the calendar on the fridge with inservice days and parent-teacher conferences all marked out in neat print, doctor's appointments in somewhat messier script.

And pictures of Blaine, of course. The boy in his best suit, surrounded by Kurt and all his friends at the Hummel-Hudson wedding. Blaine in his Dalton academy uniform, smiling with Wes next to him. Blaine at some show choir competition, in a bow tie, surrounded by boys in red shirts and girls and black and white dresses.

There's only one picture of Ben -- sitting at one of the tables at the school, with four teenagers clustered around him. A boy in a wheelchair, a girl in a black dress. A boy in a lime green sweatshirt and a blonde girl in a cheerleading uniform, smiling broadly for the camera.

_I mean, Mike and Artie were obvious choices. And Tina's a standout, academically. But_ Brittany.

_After all those years of remedial classes, after every other teacher had given up on her, after every single person she knew had labeled her as stupid, there you were._

_Of course, she'd want to do something to protect you._

She would have had an ordinary life once, too. Show choir, cheerleading, school. A normal teenage girl with a normal teenage life. But she gave that up for Ben.

And now he's giving everything up for her. This house, his teaching. Holly. Perhaps even his son. And Blaine, of course, is risking himself and his father.

The question then becomes -- How much is Sayid himself willing to give up?

As if in answer, Nadia comes into the room, sits down by Sayid and lays her hand on his knee.

"If I go with them," Sayid says, softly. "There's no guarantee that I'll ever come back."

"I know," Nadia says, and leans in, and kisses his cheek, the soft press of her lips and the warmth of her breath. She doesn't pull away very far, only enough for the tip of her nose to graze his ear as she shifts, whispers, "All I ask is that you do what you think is right."

Then she wraps her arms around him, rests her head on his shoulder, and he reaches up and covers her hands with his own.

 

*

 

"Santana fell asleep about an hour ago," Burt reports, leaning against the doorway into the kitchen. "Finn says he called her mom before he tucked her in. Brittany's in and out, mostly out. No more nosebleeds, at least. Finn's keeping an eye on it. And Carole's keeping an eye on Finn."

He thinks he sees Ben almost smile at that, but it's impossible to say for certain.

"As far as Kurt and Blaine go..." Burt shrugs. "Asleep on Kurt's bed -- fully clothed, in case you were wondering. No telling how long they've been out. I was gonna wake Blaine up and have him come down, but --"

Ben shakes his head at that. "No," he says. "Let him sleep. He's..." Another shake of the head. "Let him sleep."

Burt nods, watches Ben for a second and then adds, "If you want help getting up the stairs, so you can say goodnight. It's no trouble."

There's a pause as Ben contemplates this, and then finally he meets Burt's eyes and says, "All right." He eases himself out of his chair, one hand pushing against the table as a sort of counterbalance, the other arm reaching out.

Burt closes the distance between them, gets his own arm around Ben's waist, and together the two of them slowly make their way to the stairs.

 

*

 

It's very late by the time Rachel even thinks of calling Finn.

She'd meant to do it as soon as she finished up at Mike's house, but it took longer than she thought. First they had to watch the video four times just to make sure everyone caught the flicker of the rabbit disappearing. Then they had to argue about whether or not it was fake. Then Artie had to ask just where the video had come from. Then Mike had to explain all about his uncle, and how his aunt hated their family for a long time, and how the one time they'd gone to see her when she was sick, to offer their help, she'd kicked them out of the house and then mailed this box of stuff to them because she couldn't stand to look at it because she didn't want to remember her husband anymore. And Mike's dad had put the box in the attic because he was ashamed of it too, and Mike had gone up to get it again because he needed to know but then he was too scared to look at it and then Puck found it one time when he was really high and too scared to go back to his own house so he'd hid in Mike's room and watched the video and read the journal and ate a sleeve of fifteen year-old crackers because he had the munchies.

And then he told Mike about it and it didn't make any sense, so Mike watched the video and read the journal (but he didn't eat the crackers even though Puck said they were fine).

And that was how Mike heard about the Orchid. And Faraday. And Lewis.

And that was the part in the story where Mike's mom made them all come downstairs for pizza, and they had to stop talking for a while because Mike's dad was in the living room rustling newspaper really loudly and making comments about the time, so they all just stayed quiet and stared at their pizza, which Rachel couldn't even eat because of the cheese. Mike's mother had to make her a salad with nothing but iceberg lettuce and carrots and broccoli and some random walnuts from the back of the cabinet, which Rachel ate to be polite and also because her brain needed fuel.

Then they went back upstairs, and Rachel showed Mike the freighter's passenger log which Hurley had stolen and then wound up giving to her for her notebook, and how it had _Faraday, D -- Physicist_ and _Lewis, C -- Anthropologist_ on it, which had to mean they were the same people who had gone to the Orchid, except that they went to the Orchid in 1981 and then they went to the Island last year and that didn't make any sense except that then Tina pointed out that the bunny had disappeared when it went through time and so maybe when Hurley saw the Island disappear then that was because _it_ was traveling through time. Except then Artie pointed out that Brittany had to go to the Island to fix her brain, and how could she do that if the Island was in the eighties? Except obviously _Brittany_ had been traveling through time, which Rachel helpfully reminded him of, but then he got defensive, and then they all started arguing again, and it didn't stop until Tina noticed that Mike had just been staring at the freighter's passenger log for like half an hour and asked if he was okay.

And then it turned out Mike wasn't okay because his cousin had been on the freighter and now no one knew where he was because he hadn't come back with Hurley but he wasn't mentioned in Pierre Chang's journal either and Mike didn't really know his cousin but it was still obviously really upsetting for him, so Tina put her arms around him and everyone stopped fighting for a while.

And then it was after midnight, so they agreed to reconvene in two days after everyone had had a chance to catch their breath and Rachel had had a chance to find out who _Lewis, C_ was.

And that was when Rachel thought about calling Finn, except it was really late and he'd been through a lot so she decided she wouldn't.

But she must have kept thinking about it, in the end, because somehow she got turned around and drove to his house rather than to hers.

And there were lights on inside.

And now she's standing at his front door, and before she can think too hard about it, she knocks.

There's a long pause, long enough that Rachel thinks that maybe they just left the lights on before they went to bed (except she doubts that they did, because she knows that when Kurt's stressed out he wakes up in the middle of the night and walks around making sure none of the lights are on because he did it at her house once when his dad was still in the hospital and now there's time travel and Brittany's dying and he has to go to a spooky magic electromagnetic Island and so obviously he's stressed). Then, right when Rachel's about to turn around and go home, the door opens a crack.

It's Kurt.

She knew he couldn't leave those lights on.

"It's very late, Rachel," Kurt says, quietly, like everyone else is asleep.

Rachel knows she should turn and walk away, but she can't quite firm up her chin and do it the way she wants to -- in fact, her whole face starts to crumble really unattractively and all she can choke out is, "Please just let me see him. Just for a second."

Kurt sighs in a way that means he's giving in. "I'm making him some warm milk," he says, and opens the door all the way to let her in. "You could take it up to him if you wanted to; I should probably get back to Blaine just in case he --"

Then he stops talking, because the moment the door closed behind her Rachel realized that she couldn't go another second without hugging Kurt, so she grabs him and does just that, except she forgot to warn him and it must have startled him a little. But not too much, because he hugs her back after taking a moment to think about it.

"Are you really going?" she asks, and her voice is all weird and wavery and choked up, probably because she can't seem to stop crying.

And Kurt shouldn't know that she knows where he's going, but if it surprises him, he doesn't let it show. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I am."

"Okay," she says, and then, "Come back as soon as you can, okay?"

"Sure," Kurt says, and now his voice is shaky, too. "Okay. I'll... As soon as I can."

They hold on to each other for a long time

"Rachel," Kurt says, when they finally break apart, wiping their eyes and giving each other slightly wobbly smiles. "You should know. Finn's not going. His mom's already said... He's staying here."

Rachel almost tells Kurt that there's no way Finn's staying. That if Kurt and Burt and Blaine and Brittany and Mr. A are all leaving, there's no way Finn would ever stay behind. She almost tells him that Finn will go after them even if he has to swim to the Island. But she doesn't. It wouldn't make Kurt feel any better anyway; he doesn't like people rescuing him. She gets that now. "I just... I just really need to see him," she says. "If that's okay."

Kurt lays a hand on her shoulder and starts steering her towards the kitchen. "Sure," he says, softly. "Sure."

 

*

 

He doesn't start crying until he's sure Santana's asleep.

Maybe it's unfair, because he knew she was crying when he came in, so he saw her crying and he knows she didn't want him to but he did it anyway. But. He also thinks she sort of needed someone to see her crying, that she needed someone to hold her hand while she did it, and it's the last good thing he had left that he could do, so he did that.

Except that's it. That's the last good thing he could do.

Now there's nothing left but crying, so that's what he does.

It's over. It's all over, and nothing he did mattered, and everyone's going away and there's nothing he can do to stop it happening and he tried so hard, even when he didn't know what he was doing, he tried so _hard_ \--

It's still over. So he turns his face to the wall and he just cries and cries and cries until he realizes that someone's rubbing his back and someone's talking to him and he sort of freaks out because it's obviously a girl and his first thought is

"Santana --"

But then he turns and it's not Santana at all. It's _Rachel_.

"It's okay," she says, softly, and he just called her another girl's name and he doesn't know why she's not pissed, but she just touches his face and rubs a tear away with her thumb. "She's still asleep."

"Rachel," Finn says, except then he doesn't know what to say, because she doesn't know any of what's going on except she's looking at him like she does and he's so tired he can't even think straight anymore, so he just says, "It's over."

Rachel leans in and kisses him, even though he probably tastes salty and weird and gross. Then she backs away, and looks him dead in the eye, and says, "Listen to me. It's _not_ over, okay? I promise you. We'll figure it out. And we'll get them back. Okay?"

"Okay," Finn says, even though he's not sure. But Rachel's his co-leader, so maybe. Maybe. "Okay, Rachel. Okay."

And then he lets her put her arms around him and pull him in so he can cry on her shoulder, because even if it's not over, it still hurts.

 


	19. Exodus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben's return to the Island is the start of something that absolutely none of them are ready for.

_January 6th, 1981_

 

Richard Alpert does not usually question his boss. They have a long (a very long) history of working well together, and although there are still times when Richard doesn't understand his orders, he carries them out in the hope that someday, all of this will make sense.

Usually.

But there are some things even he can't wrap his mind around. This is one of those things.

"I'm just saying," he says, and watches Jacob work methodically at his loom, weaving his threads in and out, in and out. The metaphor doesn't escape him, of course. Sometimes he wishes Jacob would use words instead of symbols. "We've never been in the habit of taking hostages. I'm not sure we should start with a twelve year-old."

There was a time when Jacob might have reacted to even the gentlest questioning with a furious display of anger -- the early days, when he wasn't used to Richard, wasn't used to anyone. But that was long ago. Now he just sounds faintly amused. "Don't think of Benjamin as a hostage," he says. "Think of it as... What's the term? Foster care."

"Foster care?" Richard repeats, more than a little thrown.

"You've met with Roger Linus," Jacob continues, reaching for the black thread. "You've spoken to him. Do you really think he's the ideal guardian for the boy? For _any_ child, ever?"

Richard has tried very hard not to think about Roger Linus at all. Jacob said that Richard should meet with the man, and so he did. He let Roger make his case for inclusion into their people, and he took the message back to Jacob, because that's his job. It isn't Richard's place to have an opinion. Of course, that didn't exactly stop him; of course, Jacob must have known exactly what he thought. But it's not like Jacob to bring it up. It's not about who these people are; it's about who they can become.

Then again, maybe that's the point.

"Is that what this is about?" Richard asks. "The boy. He's the one we're interested in?"

"He's an interesting child," Jacob replies. "Inquisitive, talented... And with the right guidance, he could grow up to be a very important person." White thread again. "Of course, it all comes down to parenting, in the end. One mistake too many, and..." He shakes his head.

_Very important_. Richard considers this for a few moments, then says, cautiously -- "If the DHARMA Initiative discovers the boy is gone. This could bring us into open war. You do realize that, don't you?"

Jacob straightens, stares at his weaving for a little while. Doesn't turn around. Finally, he says, "They'll never even notice he's missing. Believe me. They won't."

And that, perhaps, is the worst thing he could have said. That the boy could be so casually handed over by his father, that he could disappear without a trace and no one would notice. No one would care. And of course, that's why Jacob said it, to provoke a response. But that doesn't mean it's not true. It's possible that Jacob lies, but Richard has never caught him at it. Not yet, anyway.

"So who exactly is to raise the boy?" Richard asks. "Ellie's already announced that she's not staying much longer, and as for Widmore --"

"You know your people better than I do, Richard," Jacob reminds him. "You'll figure it out. I have faith in you."

"As long as one of us does," Richard says, with a sigh.

Jacob doesn't respond, doesn't turn around, just keeps weaving his threads. Warp and weft, light and dark.

It's a beautiful metaphor, as these things go, but words would be nice. _Answers_ would be nice.

But none are forthcoming, and eventually Richard turns his back on Jacob, makes his way back up to the outside world. His people are waiting, and he has a job to do.

 

_January 6th, 2011_

 

"I have to say, Richard, I'm a little surprised that you're not happier about this." John settles across the fire from Richard, smiles at him through the flames.

There was a time when Richard had faith that all of Jacob's decisions would one day make sense to him. Lately, he's not so sure. He and Ethan had their disagreements, but that's not uncommon. Richard's disagreed with a lot of people over the years. And now Ethan's gone, and John is here and Richard...

Richard is no longer sure of anything, anymore.

"From what I've heard, you more or less raised Benjamin Linus," John continues, smiling, and Richard feels his hackles raising. "So I'd think you'd be more pleased to have him home again."

"Well, John," Richard says, lifting his eyes from the fire. John hasn't learned yet that, temporary Leader or not, Richard doesn't answer to him. Richard answers to Jacob, and Jacob only. "I realize that different people have different parenting styles, but I always thought that part of raising a child was learning to let them go."

"And so you let Ben go."

It's the mildest of accusations, but it's an accusation nonetheless. Richard doesn't rise to it. "And so I let him go," he repeats. "I suppose you'd have preferred it if I hadn't."

John simply shrugs. "You had your reasons," he says, almost as though he understands. He doesn't, of course, not that Richard's inclined to point that out. He has a certain respect for John, and perhaps even a casual kind of fondness, but they're far from sharing heartfelt confessions. Particularly now. "But it's time for him to come home, Richard. The Island needs him. And I think he needs the Island, even if he doesn't understand it right now."

Richard can't stop himself from raising an eyebrow. "And you're going to explain that to him?"

"Well, I'm going to try." John stands, dusts his hands off on his pants. Whatever he wanted, he hasn't gotten it. Richard should take a certain satisfaction in that, but he doesn't seem capable of it right now. "For the record, Richard, and I'll understand if you don't believe me, but all I want is for Ben to hear me out. Just that, just to hear me out. And if he does, and he decides he still wants to leave... Then that's his choice."

"Far be it from me to point out the obvious, John," Richard says, although he's well aware that his job is to do just that, to point out the obvious, "but how exactly do you expect Ben to get back home with no helicopter, no freighter, and no submarine?"

John actually laughs at that. He actually laughs. "You need to have a little more faith in the boy you raised," he says, and turns away. "Ben's already left the Island once. I'm sure he can do it again if he really wants to."

Then he turns and rejoins the others, leaving Richard alone at his fire, with his thoughts.

He doesn't doubt that John is right about one thing at least. Ben is coming home. There's no real way of knowing that for sure, of course -- no contact with the outside world, no photographs or video evidence, no proof... But Richard knows. Ben is coming home.

And regardless of what John might say, what he might even believe, Richard knows that Ben's return to the Island is the start of something that absolutely none of them are ready for.

He doesn't understand. And he's not entirely convinced that this is the right thing, not anymore.

 

_January 7th, 2011_

 

Eloise has chosen a very nice hotel to stay in, with a very nice little restaurant, a very nice little brunch menu. Pristine white tablecloths, linen napkins, real silver. Very nice, very... civilized.

Ben is about to be someplace far less civilized, and although he hates to admit it even to himself, there is a part of him, a hard core of anger right in the darkest corner of his heart, that welcomes the change. There are certain things he can't do in the civilized world, certain... solutions that are unavailable to him here.

On the Island, it will be different.

But he is not there, yet, so he dabs at his mouth with his napkin, lays his fork down, and says, "Out of curiosity, Eloise. Did you know? When Blaine and I came ashore in L.A., when you took us in. Did you know this is where we would end up?"

Eloise looks up at him over the rim of her china cup. Then she sets it down, the handle turned just so, and says, "I assumed that, since the Island let you go, there must be some sort of reason. I didn't know what it would be at the time. Then you came here."

"And found Brittany and Kurt waiting for us," Ben concludes. He folds his hands in his lap, keeps his shoulders relaxed, projecting a calm he absolutely does not feel. "I imagine you knew about them sooner, of course."

"Much sooner," Eloise says.

"And you never --" Ben's hands clench into fists in his lap; his control fractures for one crucial second. "Brittany is your god-daughter, Eloise. You knew she was in danger. Did it never occur to you to try and prevent this?"

"Of course it occurred to me," Eloise snaps back, giving Ben at least the momentary comfort of knowing that he's gotten under her skin, however briefly. "Often, in fact. But as I think we've all seen by now, it's not as simple as that. There are things that cannot be changed. This, sadly, is one of them. Brittany and Kurt must go to the Island."

Ben studies her for a long time. Eloise is a master of inscrutability, of course. There's seldom anything to read in her expressions. But Ben has spent more time with her than most, has learned the faintest shifting of her eyebrows, the twitch of the muscles at the corner of her mouth, the faded remnants of her old tells. "What aren't you telling me, Eloise?" he asks.

She sighs. "There are some things, Ben, that even you wouldn't believe. Not yet, anyway."

And she raises her hand, imperiously, for the check.

The waiter, a blond man in an immaculate white apron, comes immediately, lays the check down in its silver tray, and waits for Eloise's platinum card to be placed within before whisking it away again.

Such a nice place. So very civilized. There is a dark core of anger in the very heart of Ben that is itching to burn it to the foundations.

He does not do this, of course. In fact, he even waits until the waiter is out of earshot before asking, "So what happens now?"

Eloise just sighs and shakes her head. "To be honest, this is the first time in a long time that I don't have an answer. I suppose that we'll simply have to find out."

Of course, Ben has no idea whether or not she's telling the truth. In fact, he's almost certain that she isn't. But he knows that pressing her won't get them anywhere, and his patience is at its limit, so he lets it go.

"Well," he says, softly. "Thank you for breakfast, Eloise. But if you'll excuse me, I have a flight to prepare for."

Then he unlocks his chair and turns to wheel away, nearly clipping the waiter as he passes; the man's balance falters and he has to rest a hand on Ben's shoulder for a moment to steady himself. He murmurs an apology before continuing on.

Ben supposes he should do likewise; it would be the civilized thing to do.

Instead, he keeps pushing himself away, out of the restaurant, out of the hotel, away from this nice, civilized place.

He can't say he's looking forward to returning to the Island, but. Part of him almost is.

 

_January 8th, 2011_

 

He's been waiting for Ben to come to him. There must be so many questions he wants to ask, so much anger he needs to take out on someone, so much he's keeping bottled up that just needs the right audience to come out.

But Ben doesn't come.

In fact, Ethan doesn't see him until they arrive at the airport. Ben's back in his chair (and oh, wouldn't John Locke just _love_ that little wrinkle), with Blaine and the Hummels hovering protectively around him. Juliet is holding tight to Ethan's arm -- really, it's almost like she doesn't trust him -- and so any thought Ethan might have had of approaching Ben is curtailed by their respective bodyguards.

But that's all right, really. After all, there's only so much room on an airplane. And after that, the Island.

Ben won't be able to avoid him forever.

"Out of curiosity," Juliet murmurs, and smiles at him just like a loving spouse might. He wonders if she still thinks of her ex-husband sometimes. He wonders if, maybe, he doesn't remind her of the man. Although he likes to think his reasons for attempting to control Juliet were far better than Edmund's. "Why does it matter so much to you? Why does _he_ matter so much to you?"

He'd thought she hadn't noticed. He should have known better.

"Out of curiosity, Juliet," he replies, "why do you care?"

Her smile widens. "I asked first, Ethan."

There are a lot of answers he could give her; most of them would be at least half true. He considers them all for a moment, and then says, "Because I wanted to leave the DHARMA Initiative, like he did. And he wouldn't help me. And I was furious, until I understood."

"Understood what?" Juliet asks, softly.

A pair of flight attendants approaches Ben, wheeling a tall, narrow chair in front of them. It must be nearly boarding time.

"That he honestly believed that leaving the DHARMA Initiative was the worst thing that ever happened to him," Ethan finishes. "And he was trying to protect me from the same fate."

Blaine takes his father's arms, helps him carefully into the chair. They smile at each other -- briefly, sadly. Then one of the attendants takes the handles of the chair and begins to push Ben away, with Blaine trailing along after him.

"Maybe he was right," Juliet murmurs.

"No," Ethan says. "He wasn't. But, still. It's touching that he cared."

Her grip on his arm softens slightly, but he's not foolish enough to try to pull away.

"He can have it," Ethan says. "If he wants it, he can have all of it. I won't fight him for it; I never would."

Juliet considers this for a moment. "And if he doesn't want it?" she asks, softly.

Ethan would like to say that in that case he'll help Ben get off the Island; he really would. But he's no longer sure that's an option. "Then," he says, finally. "Then we have a problem."

 

*

 

His father's wheelchair has disappeared by the time they deplane at LAX. The flight attendants are apologetic, a little, but all they do is sort of shrug their shoulders.

_Sorry. Nothing we can do._

Blaine wants, very badly, to burst into tears. He wants to take this moment to call the entire thing off, to turn around and head back to Lima because there's nothing _he_ can do. He's spent the last four hours on a small, crowded airplane, with his dad's back aching and his leg sore and Ethan kept staring at them the entire time and Blaine wanted to snap at him but he knew his dad wouldn't want Blaine to give Ethan the satisfaction, so he didn't. And so Ethan kept staring, and Blaine had to keep everything he wanted to say to himself, but he doesn't think he can do it forever, or even for five more minutes. And now there's no chair, and Ethan is still _staring_ at them, and they have less than thirty minutes to cross the airport and get to the departure gate for their flight to Guam, which would have been tricky even with the chair, and now they don't have it and if they miss this flight, then --

Then Blaine's not sure, really. He doesn't know what will happen. Maybe it's all a hoax; maybe Eloise is lying to them --

But Eloise doesn't lie, not really. She'll refuse to say things, sometimes, if she doesn't want you to know. But she doesn't lie.

Blaine wants to burst into tears. He wants to give up.

Then he looks at Kurt, standing with his arm around Brittany. He looks at Brittany, leaning sleepily against Kurt.

Kurt won't turn back; Blaine knows he won't. Kurt's not the turning-back type.

He looks back at his father, who never turns back either.

Then he drops their carry-ons to the floor, reaches out, hooks his hands under his father's arms, and helps him out of the narrow airplane chair, up to his feet.

"Let me help you with those," Sayid murmurs, stepping in and scooping up their bags.

Burt looks at Blaine and his father for a second, and then says, "No offense, kid, but I got him," and ducks down to let Blaine's father drape an arm over his shoulders, peeling him slowly out of Blaine's grip.

Hurley rests a hand on Blaine's shoulder and says, "Come on, we've got a plane to catch," and Blaine almost bursts into tears for completely different reasons, but he doesn't.

He lets Burt Hummel set off, matching his steps carefully to Blaine's father's, lets Kurt and Brittany fall in behind them. Then, finally, he follows, Hurley keeping careful step with him.

"It's kind of weird," Hurley says, after a while.

Blaine blinks. "What is?" he asks. Because there are a lot of things that are weird right now, and he's honestly not sure which one Hurley's referring to.

"John Locke," Hurley says, which narrows things down a little, but not a lot. "You know, the guy who sent us here. Well, he sent Sayid here, and Michael. Walt. Anyway. But he was in a wheelchair, before the plane crashed. And then... I don't know. Like, I guess he just woke up after, and, you know. No more wheelchair."

"Oh," Blaine says, when Hurley doesn't continue.

"And now your dad's in a wheelchair," Hurley says, finally. "Or he should be, anyway. I don't know; it's just... weird."

Blaine has successfully managed to keep himself from bursting into tears three times in the last five minutes, but right now he can't quite stop himself from letting out an exasperated sigh. "Please don't tell me you think it's some kind of sign," he snaps.

Up ahead of them, Kurt stiffens slightly but doesn't turn around.

"Dude," Hurley says, and he sounds surprisingly offended. "Look. Walt came to me, in my dream, and told me I had to keep an eye on your dad. And that was, like, before I even knew I was leaving the Island. I'm just saying -- _that_ was a sign. This is just... You know. Weird."

Blaine almost smiles. Almost. "Sorry," he says, softly.

"It's okay, dude." Hurley's hand slides across his back to wrap fully around his shoulders, pulling him in. It's a little weird, because he doesn't know Hurley that well, but it's also kind of nice, so Blaine lets it happen, even if it makes it harder for him to use his cane properly. "You've had kind of a rough year."

There's not a hell of a lot Blaine can say to that, really, so he just leans on Hurley and keeps following his father.

But Hurley's obviously not done, because after about a minute or so, he asks, "So, but you've seen Walt, right? He's... You know. He's talked to you."

Walt and Blaine went to school together for two months, but that's obviously not what Hurley's getting at, so Blaine doesn't point it out. He and Walt didn't really talk to each other then anyway. "Yeah," he says, instead. "Yeah. A couple times."

Hurley nods, his curls bouncing slightly. "Do you ever... Have you ever talked to anyone else? Besides Walt, I mean."

"No," Blaine says. "I mean, I saw my dad, when he was in that room, but... I couldn't talk to him. And I've never seen anyone else." He thinks about that for a second, and then adds, "Why? Have you?"

For a long time, Hurley doesn't say anything. Then, finally, he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I have."

Another long silence. Finally, Blaine says, "Oh," again, because there's not really anything else to say, but he has to say something.

Hurley pulls away a little bit. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"Do you think I'm crazy?" Blaine asks, and now it's his turn to be offended, even if it's only a little bit.

"No," Hurley says, quickly. "No, of course not. You're just... you know. Special."

"Then you're probably Special too, Hurley," Blaine points out. "Just... different from me. Walt's different too, you know. We all are. But I wouldn't say any of us are crazy. Would you?"

It takes a second for Hurley to relax again, but he does, hugging Blaine maybe a little tighter this time. The movement makes Blaine stumble over his feet a little, but Hurley's hugging him too tightly for him to fall.

They keep walking together in silence.

 

*

 

It's weird, being on a plane for the first time and knowing it's going to crash.

Technically, at least, this is his second flight. His first one was half an hour ago, from Ohio to California. Then they got off that plane and crossed the airport and now this is his second flight. It's still weird, though. Sitting here. Knowing what's going to happen.

Except for the fact that he doesn't know anything at all and absolutely nothing makes sense.

He's accepted the time machine thing; he doesn't know why exactly, but he knows that he basically accepted it the moment Brittany collapsed into his arms. He's accepted it, but that doesn't mean he understands it. Just like he doesn't really understand the magic Island thing, or why it needs Blaine and his father, why they couldn't have stayed home, safe. Which isn't to say he doesn't know why they _wouldn't_ stay home -- he remembers the shattered look on Mr. Anderson's face when he sat down next to Brittany in the choir room, Blaine's lips pressed to his forehead after he'd cried himself out. He knows why they wouldn't, why they didn't.

But why Creepy Shawl Lady said they had to...

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Brittany turns her attention away from the window, lets her head drop onto his shoulder. "It means time," she says, helpfully.

"What?"

"Her pin," Brittany says. "The snake. The one on her shawl. It means time."

The thing is, Kurt knows he should know what Brittany's talking about. He has an eye for details -- he never forgets an accessory. He should know; he should _understand_ \--

But he doesn't.

He remembers Eloise Hawking in her shawl. He remembers her carefully set white hair, her prim posture, the way her eyes occasionally darted down and to the left like she was pushing back things she didn't want to say. He remembers the way Blaine would look back at his father while she was talking, the sort of _see? I told you so_ on his face, like he'd already read the script she was reciting from. He remembers the way resignation settled in on Mr. Anderson's face.

He doesn't remember a pin shaped like a snake.

"You'll figure it out," Brittany says, and snuggles in closer.

Kurt closes his eyes and rests his cheek on her hair.

He really, really hopes she's right.

 

*

 

She's there, mostly. Sometimes she floats a little, forgets why she's not in her Cheerios uniform or why her hair is out of its high pony, wonders when all her classes got so crowded and boring. She goes away a few times, too, but Kurt's wherever she goes and it makes things easier. It makes things okay.

It's actually not that exciting. It's kind of mostly like being in her living room, if her living room was thirty thousand feet off the ground and they had to watch some Gwyneth Paltrow movie about doors instead of Sweet Valley High and instead of cuddling with Santana, she's cuddling with Kurt, which really isn't that different except Kurt's hand doesn't go into her pants ever. And sometimes Mr. A says something to Blaine or Mr. Hummel says something to Kurt or Hurley or Sun or Sayid say something to... somebody, and she wonders why these weird people are in her living room before she remembers where she is.

And sometimes she thinks she's in school, except then she realizes she's not.

And sometimes she goes back, but Kurt's there, and it's okay.

Except for the last time. The time with the running water -- falling water, a waterfall. And Brittany's draped over some wet, slimy rock, but Kurt is... Kurt is floating. Kurt is not floating, Kurt is splashing and flailing and calling out and Brittany tries to get off the rock but her head hurts and she feels weird and she can't --

And then someone else comes out of nowhere -- a white-haired man in a purple shirt, crashing into the fallen water and swimming out to Kurt and telling him it's okay, and Brittany's so scared and relieved and confused that she just starts crying.

And then she wakes up, crying into Kurt's shoulder, and he pets her hair until she calms down.

He calms her down so much she actually sleeps for a while.

And then she wakes up again.

And it's dark, like night time.

And it's very quiet, because most people are sleeping.

And she knows.

"What do you think it's going to be like? The Island, I mean. What do you think will happen?" Kurt is asking softly, and when Blaine answers, he's not in front of them anymore. He's next to them, next to Kurt. Like he switched seats with someone.

Brittany opens her eyes and peers past Kurt's chin, and there's Blaine on the other side of the aisle, sitting next to a man in a sleeping mask.

"I don't know," Blaine says. "When I was there... It was completely different, when I was there. Now Mr. Widmore's gone, and there's this John Locke, and... I don't know what it's like now. But I don't... I don't think it's better. I think it's just... different."

"But if John Locke wants your dad to be Leader," Kurt suggests. He doesn't sound really sure of himself. "Wouldn't he... I mean, he has to listen to what your dad wants, right? If your dad's the Leader? So if your dad says he wants to go home --"

Blaine's quiet for a couple of seconds, and then he says, "Everybody answers to somebody, Kurt. Especially the Leader. I think..." He sighs.

And then the plane lurches and the lights flicker.

"You should probably put on your seatbelts," Brittany says, and Kurt turns and looks at her. Blaine turns and looks at her too. His eyes are round like a cartoon character's, and it's almost funny, but Brittany can't laugh.

It's a relief, though, in its way. She's still not entirely sure what will happen when she gets to the Island, but one thing she knows -- she won't be lost anymore.

The plane lurches and shudders again; the lights go off entirely, then come back on. There's a pinging noise, and then something lights up underneath the _No Smoking_ sign at the front of the plane. _Please fasten seatbelts. Use seat cushion for flotation device._

Kurt puts on his seatbelt.

Blaine doesn't. "Dad?" he asks, sounding terrified.

"Stay in your seat, Blaine," Mr. A says, and he doesn't sound any less scared, and for one second, Brittany feels terrible about all of this. But then the plane is shaking again, and something is _pulling_ , and Brittany's too distracted for guilt. "Put on your seatbelt. It's going to be okay."

This time, when the plane starts to shake and shudder, it doesn't stop. There's a stewardess walking down the aisle, telling everyone to fasten their seatbelts, and Brittany wants to tell her to sit down, but she can't. There's only three-quarters of her left on the plane, maybe less than that, fading away, and the plane won't stop shaking. And there's a noise, a high noise, and a growing light, and she can't --

She reaches out and grabs Kurt's hand, and Kurt reaches across the aisle for Blaine's, and the stewardess stops at the very front of the plane, holding on to someone's seat with one hand, like she's just realized what's going to happen to her. And the light is getting brighter and brighter.

Brittany closes her eyes.

 

*

 

It's actually a really good flight, up until the part where the plane starts to crash.

The nice thing about doing air safety videos, apart from getting paid in miles, is that the flight attendants are always really super friendly. They appreciate him -- the confident way he buckles a safety belt, the smoothness with which he demonstrates appropriate oxygen mask technique. Plus, ever since he did that video about the benefits of compression socks, he's gotten a lot of admiring looks in the general direction of his legs, and there's never anything wrong with that. Cooper likes being appreciated. Flight attendants -- they appreciate him.

And he can take as many flights as he wants to, because he gets paid in miles. So really, it works out well for everyone.

Except maybe his landlord and a couple dozen bill collectors, but he'll figure that out when he comes back from Guam. He's pretty sure.

Right now, he's up in the sky where nothing can touch him.

Right up until that first spot of turbulence hits.

The first thing he notices when he takes his sleeping mask off is that the empty seat next to him has been filled. There's a teenager sitting next to him, some kid in a bowtie and a cardigan staring straight ahead with a wide-eyed expression. The plane shakes and rattles again, and the _fasten seatbelts_ sign goes on, and the kid's hands tighten on the armrests.

"Dad?" the boy asks, and Cooper has no idea how the kid's voice manages to crack in a one-syllable word, but it does.

One row ahead, a man with glasses answers back. "Stay in your seat, Blaine. Put on your seatbelt. It's going to be okay."

A stewardess starts to make her way down the aisle, clutching the seats to keep her balance, telling everyone "Please fasten your seatbelts. Fasten seatbelts, please. Please fasten --" But the kid -- Blaine -- still doesn't start fumbling for his seatbelt. Not until the third time the plane lurches, and that's terrible timing, because the plane doesn't stop shaking after that. It shudders and jolts, and between the constant rattling of the plane and the trembling of his own hands, Blaine can't seem to get the buckle in place. He makes this weird sort of whimpering sound, and years of safety-video experience take over.

Cooper leans over and quickly fastens the boy's seatbelt for him. "Just a little turbulence," he says, looking up at Blaine and smiling; the kid just stares at him with huge dark eyes. "It's all gonna be okay."

Blaine's incredulous stare lingers a little longer, and then he screws his eyes tight shut and presses his head back into the seat cushion like he's bracing for a blow. But he reaches out, one of his hands finding Cooper's and clinging to it, the other reaching across the aisle to where a boy with very tall hair is reaching back for him.

It's funny -- Cooper hadn't realized how bright it was in the plane Except it's getting brighter, and brighter, and there's this high noise that's suddenly so ear-splitting and it feels... it feels like the plane is turning, like some kind of barrel roll, and Cooper holds tighter to the boy's hand in his and closes his eyes and there's a banging as one of the overhead compartments breaks open and a scream, a woman's scream, and --

And for a moment, just for a moment, everything is white.

Then the light dims a little and Cooper opens his eyes again, and his first thought is that he must have been dreaming because it's daylight. But someone's still clinging to his hand -- _Blaine_ is still clinging to his hand, and when Cooper looks over, he sees Blaine's free hand dangling into empty space because there's no boy with tall hair reaching back for him any longer. He's gone.

The plane drops suddenly, sending Cooper's stomach lurching, and Blaine's eyes flutter open. He looks at Cooper, still with that round-eyed stare.

"What happened?" someone asks. "Where are we?"

Then Blaine looks over to where his friend is supposed to be (there was a girl next to him, wasn't there? But she's gone too), and that's when the panic sets in -- Cooper can actually see it, the way the blood drains away from Blaine's face and his eyes get even wider and his breathing starts to pick up.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks, as the plane just keeps falling from the sky and Cooper holds tight to Blaine's hand because he's literally forgotten how to do anything else. "Brittany? Kurt!"

"Blaine!" the older man says -- the one in front, Blaine's father. "What's going on?"

"He's gone!" Blaine tries to stand, can't -- with his seatbelt in the way -- sinks back into his seat for a second. "They're gone! They're just -- Kurt! _Kurt!_ "

"Oh God," someone says, from the front of the plane. "There was a woman, she was right here --"

"Sayid? _Sayid!_ Where'd he --"

Blaine starts fumbling with his seatbelt buckle with his left hand, starts trying to pull his other hand out of Cooper's grip, but Cooper just clings tighter because he's got to hold onto something because it was night and now it's day and some kid with tall hair just vanished off the plane and what the _fuck_ \--

The plane is still falling, tipping and tilting; oxygen masks drop down from above them. Someone's suitcase slides down the center aisle. People gasp -- someone swears; someone says, "I can't --"

Someone else says, "Let me help you with that."

Blaine bats his oxygen mask aside and keeps trying to unbuckle his seatbelt.

Blaine's father asks, "Blaine, what are you _doing_?" His voice is sharp with fear.

And it's that, that desperate edge that snaps Cooper out of whatever confused trance he's in, and he reaches out and grabs for Blaine's other hand.

"Hey," he says, and Blaine starts twisting and squirming in his grip.

"Let go of me --"

"Hey, no, stop it, you _can't_ \--"

"Blaine, _please_ , stay where you --"

The plane tips to the side again and Cooper fastens his hands around Blaine's wrists, manages to force them away from his seatbelt buckle. He's holding on so tight, and Blaine is fighting so hard, and he hates that he's doing this, he hates that Blaine's dad has to see him doing this, but he doesn't dare stop.

"What the hell is happening?" someone asks.

"She was right here, I just -- "

"Everybody," a woman calls out. "Everybody, please, you have to stay calm. We've got to --"

And Blaine is not calm; Blaine is breathing heavy and struggling and there are tears in his eyes and Cooper thinks he's probably going to cry too, in a second, but he's busy trying to stop Blaine from getting to his seat belt right now.

"Let _go_ of me; he's gone, I have to --"

"I know, I know, but you've gotta stay in your seat; you've gotta --"

And Blaine's father is just trapped, watching with desperate eyes and a pained expression. "Blaine --"

"He's gone, I have to --" Blaine tries to stand again, tries to pull free again, and Cooper has to hold on tighter, push down harder, and he hates himself for it but he doesn't have a choice. "Kurt. _Kurt!_ "

" _Blaine!_ "

"He's _gone!_ " Cooper snaps, because Blaine's still fighting and Cooper's hurting him trying to keep him still and his father is desperate and terrified and this was supposed to be a good flight and why is this happening to him? "Kurt's gone. He's just... gone. And you have to stay in your seat right now, Blaine, you have to, because the plane is crashing, and --"

"Did that guy just say the plane was crashing?"

Someone else starts chanting the rosary.

"We're gonna be okay!" the woman in the middle row says. "We're gonna be okay, but we all just need to stay calm, stay in our seats, and --"

Cooper stares at Blaine and holds his wrists and says, "I know Kurt's gone. I know. But your dad's not. Your dad's right there, and he's scared you'll get hurt, and you have to stay in your seat for him, Blaine. You have to. Okay?"

Blaine finally really _looks_ at him, round dark eyes wet with tears. Then he turns and looks at his father, at the fear and pain on his father's face, and all the fight drains out of his body.

"Our Father, who art in heaven --"

"Just stay calm."

"Dad," Blaine whispers, and his whole face crumples, and Cooper lets go of his wrists and wraps his arm around Blaine's shoulders instead. He can feel Blaine shaking underneath his cardigan. "He's _gone_. They're... they're gone"

"I know," Blaine's father says; he stretches his hand back as best he's able, and it has to be straining his shoulder, but he doesn't stop reaching. And Blaine reaches back and this time their hands connect. "I'm sorry."

Cooper could probably let go of Blaine, but he doesn't He keeps his arm around Blaine's shoulder, leans into him as much as possible.

The whole plane jolts; there's a weird metallic screeching, and when Cooper glances out the window, he sees a blur of green -- trees, grass, plants. They've landed. It's not over, and they're not safe, but somehow they've landed, not crashed.

It's not the relief Cooper might've thought it would be.

Blaine -- still clinging to his father with one hand, letting Cooper hold onto him as best he's able -- drops his head and starts to cry in earnest.

 

*

 

For just a moment, he thinks the plane is just going to crash. That he was _wrong_ , that this wasn't meant to happen, that it won't --

And then the plane's nose comes up, coming out of its steep dive. It arcs gracefully in a circle, heading right for the Hydra Island runway, and John smiles.

When he turns to look at the man standing next to him, Richard doesn't look nearly as happy.

It's a shame Richard doesn't understand. But he will, in the end. Just like Ben, just like the rest of them.

John has faith.

"Well," he says, and Richard pulls his attention from the distant island, turns back to John. "Guess this is it, then."

He can see where Richard thinks about asking him if he's sure, then changes his mind, decides not to. "When do you think you'll be back?" he asks, instead.

John shrugs. "Couple days, probably. Once Ben and I have come to an understanding. Hopefully he won't be too stubborn."

He will be, of course. The Island was quite clear on that. Ben is very stubborn, very attached to his son. But that's all right. John already knows just what to do about that.

"And if he is?" Richard asks.

John just smiles at him. "Well, I don't know about you, Richard, but to me it looks like that plane landed pretty neatly. If Ben doesn't want to stay, he's got an airplane. I'm sure he can figure the rest out himself."

Richard stares at him for a long time. He doesn't quite believe, even now. Even with the plane having landed on the runway that Jacob himself ordered built, he still doesn't have faith. But he doesn't have proof, either. Not enough to make him step in and stop John from doing what needs to be done.

Finally, Richard steps back. "Goodbye, John," he says.

It's not permission, of course, but it's as close as John's ever going to get. "Goodbye, Richard," he says.

He starts dragging his outrigger into the water, leaving Richard standing on the shore behind him.

 

_January 9th, 2011_

 

Ajira Flight 316 is officially declared missing ten hours after it was scheduled to arrive in Guam.

Will doesn't call Emma; she just shows up at his house, eyes red-rimmed, hands clutching her own personal box of Kleenex, and he lets her in.

They don't say anything.

There's nothing left to say


	20. There's No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is where it's supposed to be.

 

_January 9th, 1981_

 

He never thought he'd say this (to be fair, he's never really said it, only _thought_ it), but in a lot of ways, the plane crash was the best thing to ever happen to him and Rose. It was pretty awful when it was happening; and then he didn't know where she was for a long time, thought she might've been dead, and that was horrible. But then they found each other, and somehow they made their way here, and now...

Now life is pretty good.

They've got a little place of their own, by the ocean. The fishing's good, and there's plenty of mangos and papaya. Rose has a little garden, cultivating whatever she can find wild. And Charlie stops by from time to time with DHARMA-branded canned goods and little luxuries they wouldn't have otherwise. It's not a bad place to retire, all things being considered.

Sure beats Arizona, anyway.

And they're together, they have each other, and that's all that matters.

But. As much as he loves his wife, and he loves her from the soles of his worn-out shoes to the ends of his too-long hair, there's times when it gets a little much, the two of them constantly in each others' pockets. Sometimes, for both their sakes, they just need a little more space than usual.

That's when Bernard heads for the lagoon, to listen to the waterfall and think and just... be, until he's ready to head back home again. It's a good, peaceful place to come to rest.

That's where he's headed when he hears the boy, calling out "Brittany!" There's a pause, just long enough to make Bernard wonder if he's hearing things, and then "Dad! Mr. Anderson! Someone! Oh, God, Brittany -- Britt, just hang on --" And then there's a sudden splash and a terribly long pause, and then, finally, more splashing and, “It’s okay, it’s okay, Brittany, just --”

It's probably just DHARMA kids messing around. They never ever come out here, of course; that's why Bernard heads to the lagoon, rather than someplace else, and even if anyone was out here it wouldn't be kids, it'd be grownups, with guns, but --

"Dad!" the kid calls again. “Dad, please!” and Bernard is not his Dad, and this is not his problem, and he is retired, and Rose is gonna kill him...

But he starts running anyway.

 

_January 9th, 2011_

 

"Hey, Ana."

She comes out of the gray slowly; aching, confused. She remembers white light; she remembers the plane going down. She remembers people freaking out -- Linus's kid calling out for his boyfriend, someone saying the rosary; she remembers Hurley --

"Hurley." She opens her eyes and there's his face, inches from hers. He looks worried. Which isn't really surprising. "What... Did we crash?”

Somewhere behind her, Benjamin Linus lets out a little, pained-sounding grunt, and she hears Sun ask, “Are you all right?”

Hurley turns away, looks around the plane. When Ana does the same, she sees dangling oxygen masks, luggage in the aisles, a few overturned seats up front. No great gaping holes, though. No empty space where the midsection of the plane should be.

“I don’t know,” Hurley says. “I think… I think we landed.”

There was a runway on Hydra Island; they were building it when Ana was in the cages. They even tried to have her help, until they realized she couldn’t be trusted with a pickaxe. “What happened to Sayid?" she asks, reaching up to touch her head with the back of her hand. It comes away bloody.

"I think it's dislocated," someone -- not Sun this time, a man -- says, and Linus's kid responds with a pained-sounding " _Dad_." Ana doesn't turn around, keeps her eyes on Hurley.

Hurley shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "Everything went white, and then he was just..."

"You'll have to help me pop it back into place." Ben Linus, with his quiet voice. Figures he'd get hurt in the crash. Island really seems to have it in for the guy.

"Is it me," Hurley continues, "or was the whole... you know, white light, suddenly things are vanishing... I mean, it seems kind of familiar. Doesn't it?"

"I'll do it," Linus's son says. His voice is still thick and choked with tears, but there's something in the way he says that that reminds Ana of the boy's father. A kind of toughness, maybe. "Just put your hands -- yeah, like that. Can you feel the scalpula? Right there?"

Ana manages to unbuckle her seatbelt and reaches out for Hurley to help her up. "Familiar how?" she asks, as Hurley hauls her to her feet.

"Hold it there."

"Just... I don't know, you know, but like... When we were on the freighter, and then everything went white and there was like that noise and then, like --"

The freighter. The Island.

_Lapidus._

Linus lets out a soft sigh, and a "There. Thank you. That's... Thank you."

"Go check on Linus and his son," Ana says, pushing past Hurley. "See if they need anything. Try to figure out who else is gone besides Sayid and that Kurt kid."

"Where are you going?" Hurley asks; he sounds a little scared. Ana's a little scared, too, but she'll be a lot less scared if Linus's improbably hot girlfriend is coming to the rescue.

"To make sure Lapidus did his damn job," she says, and keeps pushing her way up the aisle to the plane's cockpit.

 

_January 8th, 2011_

 

The first time she was here, she didn't really take that much time to examine her surroundings. There is more time now, a little, and she's not quite ready to go in. So she takes a moment, just to see.

It's not Benjamin's house, of course. He left that behind weeks ago, when the Island took his legs from him. But it's similar. The white vinyl siding, the cheap venetian blinds. The mailbox and the battered wreath on the front door. A simple home, for people to live simple lives.

She would have left him here, if she could have. But she couldn't.

The Island never lets anyone go that easily.

There's an access ramp leading to the front door, freshly shoveled. One difference between Ben's house and this house. And when Eloise steps inside, no doubt she'll find more differences -- rails in the bathroom, lowered sinks and mirrors. A hospital bed in one of the bedrooms. It's quite astonishing that the Hudson-Hummels would have gone to all this trouble for a virtual stranger, and a particularly dangerous one at that.

But then, they have their own connections to the Island, don't they? Whether or not they know it.

But they'll find out.

The Island never lets anyone go that easily.

Eloise checks her handbag one last time, to make sure the letter is still there, and then straightens her shoulders and marches up the ramp towards the door.

 

*

 

There's so much work to be done. Ben knows a little about John Locke but not enough. He needs to know more -- what the man's pressure points are, where to push and how. He needs to know more about what the Island has shown him, how it has helped him. Whether his people ( _Ben's_ people, still, even after all this time) have embraced him or whether some of them have doubts. Who has doubts, and what sort of doubts, and how strong they are. He needs to know about his fellow passengers. He needs to know about the pilot.

He needs to know whether or not Widmore is coming to find them.

He needs to know whether or not Holly is coming to find them.

But Kurt and Brittany are gone. Kurt and Brittany are gone -- Burt and Juliet and Sayid along with them -- and Blaine is devastated, and so the work will have to wait, for now.

So Ben sits on the beach with his uninjured arm around his son and waits for Blaine's breathing to settle, for the last few sobs to shake their way out of his system, because that is what matters most. He will make time for the rest later.

Then he hears soft steps, muffled in the sand, and resigns himself to a certain amount of multitasking.

"Thought you could use some water."

Ben glances up, sees a man hovering over them -- the same man, in fact, who Blaine sat next to before the crash. The man who buckled Blaine's seatbelt for him (who kept him from unbuckling his seatbelt once he'd realized Kurt was gone), the man who held Blaine's hand and talked him down and kept him together. The man who had listened, quietly, and followed directions, and helped Blaine reset his father's shoulder. And now he's bringing them water.

And he's not alone. Roughly three feet behind him is another man, a dark-haired man with a loosened tie and blood on the rolled-up sleeves of his white dress shirt.

"And... Um." The man who helped Blaine smiles faintly, then glances back at his companion, the man in the blood-stained shirt. "This is Jack. He's a doctor. He's been... you know, looking at people, who got hurt when the plane crashed, and I thought maybe he should look at your shoulder?"

The man in the bloodstained shirt -- Jack, apparently -- lifts a hand in a silent wave.

Blaine peels away from his father's side, wiping his eyes and sniffling as he does so. "Let him, Dad," he murmurs, not quite meeting his father's eyes, and Ben sighs and looks up.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," he says, glancing back at the two men standing over him.

"Actually, it almost certainly will," Jack says, stepping forward. He's smiling, but it's a rehearsed sort of smile. Bedside manner, probably. "But I'll be careful."

And he is careful, as he pushes at Ben's shoulder the first time, one palm holding the scalpula in place, the other feeling out the outlines of the joint. It hurts anyway, of course, but Ben breathes through it and doesn't flinch. He's felt worse.

"Oh, and my name's Cooper," the man from the plane says, settling down next to Blaine and passing him the water; Blaine takes it from him with tentative hands. "Cooper Anderson."

_Anderson._ Ben almost smiles at that. Then Jack's prodding fingers find another pocket of pain, and the urge to smile abruptly vanishes. "Ben Anderson," he says, and Cooper's eyebrows draw together at that. "It's a common name, I guess. And this is my son, Blaine."

Blaine nods and takes a sip of his water.

"It's good to meet --" Then Cooper looks back over his shoulder at where the plane sits, battered, on what appears to be a runway carved out of the jungle (the Island really does think of everything), and stops. "Sorry," he says. "Force of habit."

"It's all right," Ben says, because although nothing is really all right, none of that is Cooper Anderson's fault. In fact, he's gone out of his way to help them. Repeatedly. "Actually, I should thank you. For --" He glances at Blaine's blotchy, tear-stained face -- thinks of what might have been if Blaine really had managed to get out of his seat, if Cooper hadn't been there -- and words suddenly fail him.

"Thank you," Blaine says, very softly, and Cooper's face softens into a smile.

Jack glances over at Blaine, one hand still on the back of Ben's shoulder. "You set this, didn't you?" he asks.

"Did I do it right?" Blaine asks, immediately, eyes going round and worried. "Did I -- I was using the Milch method, because I learned it in first aid, and I thought -- but it's been a while, and I don't know if I --"

"You did great," Jack tells him, quickly, his smile less forced this time. "You... You did great. Everything's where it's supposed to be." Then he pats Ben's shoulder and stands up. "They're organizing everything from the plane -- the luggage, all of that. I'm going to see if I can find some kind of anti-inflammatory, maybe get some ice if there's any left in the galley. I'll be back."

And he pushes up to his feet and walks away.

Cooper Anderson, however, stays where he is -- sitting next to Blaine, with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. There's something oddly childish about the way he's sitting, something almost... vulnerable.

Ben watches him, waits. He's not sure what he's waiting for. But he waits anyway.

"Can I ask you something?" Cooper says, finally, and doesn't wait for a reply. "See, it was dark, when the plane was crashing? I mean, I didn't look at my watch, but... It was night. Or early morning, or something. And then suddenly it was, just. So bright. And then it was day time, but not, like, sunrise. Like day. What time do you think it is now, noon?"

"A little after, I'd say," Ben says, bemused. Cooper had seemed fairly together on the plane, but he's verging on hysterical now. Of course, the crisis is over; there's room for him to panic, if he needs to.

"And your friends," Cooper continues. Blaine sniffles again, and Cooper lays an apologetic hand on his shoulder. "I mean, I'm sorry and I know that's probably a sore spot, but... The sky turned white, and suddenly there's five less people on the plane than there were before. And it was night, and then suddenly it was day. And we landed on a runway! Like, an actual runway. And this guy was saying he found buildings, like --" Cooper waves his hands in the general direction of the jungle. "There's all kinds of buildings over there, somewhere, and a runway, so someone has to live here, right? So you'd think someone would've come to see who we are and why we're on their runway but there's nobody here! I just -- This is weird, isn't it? It's not just me. This is... This is weird."

"You're right," Ben says, because... Well, because he's right. "It's very weird." And then, "Did you say someone found buildings?"

 

*

 

He wakes up and everything is green.

He has no idea where he is. He's flat on his back, on the ground somewhere, and the sun is shining, and it's warm, and there's... green. Tall, thin-- bamboo, maybe? He reaches out, touches one of the plants; it feels like bamboo, maybe. He thinks. Hell, he doesn't know. Probably doesn't matter, anyway. Bamboo, whatever.

There's more important things.

He sits up, looks around, tries to take stock.

His hat is gone.

He remembers the plane; remember Kurt sitting up ahead of him, next to Brittany. He didn't like that, sitting separate from his son, but Kurt's taking this whole "Constant" thing awful seriously and Burt can respect that. Anyway, Britt was one of Kurt's first real friends -- one of the first Burt met, her and that Tina girl. So they sat up ahead of him, and Ben and Blaine sat up ahead of them. And then Blaine moved, so he and Kurt could talk while Brittany slept. Burt remembers that, listening to their hushed voices with his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.

And then rattling, and shaking, and the stewardess telling everyone to fasten their seatbelts, and then the light, and --

"Brittany!"

That's Kurt, calling out, and Burt's on his feet before he even really thinks about it.

"Kurt?" he calls back.

"Dad!" Burt's heart leaps for a moment -- Kurt's okay, he's heard him -- but then Kurt just keeps going. "Dad? Someone! Oh, God, Brittany -- Britt, just hang on --" And then there's splashing sounds, and whatever's happening, Kurt's scared and he thinks he's alone, and Burt’s not gonna let that happen.

And he's not some kind of fancy tracker or anything but he thinks Kurt's off to his left somewhere so that's the direction he starts running in, crashing through the bamboo.

Or whatever it is.

Wherever he is, it doesn't matter. Kurt needs him, and that's all that counts.

So he runs, and he runs, and he runs, calling out as he goes. "Kurt? Kurt! Can you hear me? Kurt!"

Then he gets a response, but it's not totally the one he wants.

"Mr. Hummel?" Seconds later, that blonde woman from the school -- Nurse Juliet -- comes stumbling out of the underbrush. She's bleeding from a cut on the forehead, her clothes dirty. "Mr. Hummel! Where is everyone? Where's the --"

"Hang on, kiddo!" And that is not a voice Burt recognizes but he has a feeling he knows exactly who the guy is talking to. "Hang on, I gotcha, I --"

Burt goes to take off again, but Juliet grabs him by the arm, steers him in a different direction. "This way," she says. "This way, come on."

The thing is, Burt doesn't like her. He doesn't trust her. But he's pretty sure she knows her way around this place a hell of a lot better than he does, so he lets her lead.

They scramble through the jungle together, her hand still on his arm like she's scared to let go of him, until finally they crest a small sort of ridge and find themselves looking down at this pool or lagoon or whatever.

And there, in the water, is Kurt -- soaked to the skin, with his hair plastered to his head, and this white-haired guy in a purple shirt helping to hold him up as they wade through waist-deep water to the shore -- but it's Kurt, it's his boy, and for that moment, that's all Burt can really see.

"Kurt?" he calls out, making his way through the tall grass to the shore of the lagoon, and Kurt finally hears him, looks up and calls out "Dad!" He pulls away from the white-haired guy, who is standing stock-still, staring not at Burt, but at the woman behind him.

"Juliet?" the guy asks. "Juliet, how did you --"

But Juliet isn't paying attention to the white-haired guy, or to Kurt or Burt, for that matter. "Brittany," she says, softly.

Barely inches from Burt's outstretched hands, Kurt hesitates, turns sideways. His arm is bleeding; that’s the first thing Burt notices. His son, bleeding. But then he looks past Kurt, tries to see what caught his son’s attention, and spots a pile of rocks maybe twenty feet away -- a pile of rocks with what looks like some discarded clothing draped over it. Then the bundle shifts, pushes upwards, and Burt can make out a tumble of blonde hair, a long arm and a splayed leg.

"Brittany," he says, and moves in the rest of the way to wrap an arm around Kurt's waist, help him get to his friend.

"She was on the rocks," Kurt explains, his voice higher than usual, words tumbling out fast, the way they always do when he's stressed. "She was on the rocks and she wasn't moving and I thought -- But I was up by the waterfall, and there wasn't a way down, so I had to -- So I _dove_ , but I -- There were so many rocks, in the pool, and I -- my arm, and I couldn't --”

"Brittany," Juliet says again, climbing up onto the rocks next to her and helping her sit up all the way. Brittany leans into her, dabbing at her bloody nose with her wet sleeve. "Brittany, are you --"

"It's fine," Brittany says, and closes her eyes, and seems to sort of take stock of things for a second. Then she opens her eyes, and says, "I'm fine, now. It's stopped. I just... I just needed to go back. And now I'm back, and now I can go... forward."

Kurt glances back at his father, puzzled; Burt can only shrug at him. He’s never really understood Brittany. Of course, she builds time machines and he fixes engines, so.

"It's over," Brittany says again. "I mean, there's one more, but I've already done it, so I know... I'm on the other side, now. It's fine. I'm fine."

It’s enough for Burt, anyway, and he's actually got his mouth open to tell Brittany that he's glad to hear it, but the white-haired guy cuts him off.

"Juliet," he says again. "What the hell are you doing here? You got out. You and Sun -- You left. You were gone."

Juliet finally really looks at the guy, smiles, shrugs. "Bernard," she says. "It’s good to see you too." Then she glances up, looks around at the trees, the rocks, the waterfall. "We're not that far from the Flame," she says, thoughtfully. "Maybe we should head there, get Mikhail to tell us where the plane crashed. He would've seen --"

Bernard clears his throat. "Mikhail's not at the Flame, Juliet," he says. There's something awkwardly consoling in the way he says it, something that makes the hairs on the back of Burt's neck stand up. "He's not... That's DHARMA territory right now. We can't go there."

Burt shivers outright at that. _DHARMA territory._ It’s not that it doesn’t make sense, because it does. It makes too much sense, really.

"Dad?" Kurt asks, sounding worried.

"DHARMA territory?" Juliet repeats, still smiling. "Really? They're back on the Island?"

"We're back," Brittany says. "Not them. Us. We've come back. All the way back to the start."

Juliet just looks at her, confused.

Burt's not confused at all. He wishes he was, but he’s not. Everything makes perfect, horrible sense.

 

*

 

The thing is, it's not like Finn wants his mom packing his suitcase for him or anything. But she's in a hurry, and he figured out a long time ago that he's better off not being in her way when she's in a hurry, so he just sort of hangs back by the door and watches her fly around the room.

"So, wait," he says, confused. "You told Burt that we weren't going on the plane because you knew we were going to be going on a boat anyway?"

"I didn't _know_ we were going on a boat," she says, her voice maybe a little louder and sharper than usual. But then, Burt's on a plane that's about to crash, and so is Kurt and Blaine and Mr. Anderson and even Brittany, and so now Finn and his mom have to go on a boat to go get them back, and Miss Holliday and that Michael guy are going too, and Santana and Wes. But Brittany's parents aren't going, even though Finn's mom yelled at them about it, and Brittany's mom cried but she still said she wasn't going, and then Santana started yelling, and Brittany's mom cried harder, but they're still not going, and that's part of why Finn's mom is so mad now. "I just... I knew Ben wasn't going without some kind of backup plan. And I knew Holly wasn't dumb enough to try to go it alone."

"Did Burt know?" Finn asks. "About the backup plan?"

"He will," Finn's mom snaps, which is basically a _no_.

Finn probably shouldn't keep asking about this, but he kind of can't stop himself, is the thing. "But won't he be, like, mad that you're bringing me? Because he said --"

"Well, better mad than dead," his mom says, and whatever else Finn was going to say sort of chokes in his throat because he sort of knew that bad things could happen on the creepy magic Island but he never thought --

"Oh, honey." And suddenly his mom's voice is soft again, and she wraps her arms around him and he hugs her really really tightly because he doesn't want anyone to die but especially not Burt or Kurt or Blaine or Brittany or Mr. A or maybe even Sayid.

"They'll be okay," she says, and he hunches down until he can bury his face in her shoulder. "They'll be --"

Then she tenses up and goes all quiet for a second, and at first he doesn't understand it, but then he hears her say, "How did you get into my house?" and he has to let go of her real fast and turn around because someone's in his house and maybe he couldn't stop Burt or Kurt or anyone from going to the dangerous Island but that doesn't mean he's letting anyone hurt his mom.

The creepy shawl-wearing witch lady is standing in the hallway, watching them.

"I came in through the front door," she says. There's a pause, and then she adds, "I _did_ knock. You must not have heard me."

Finn's mom reaches down and holds tight to his hand. "What do you want?" she asks.

The witch lady holds out an envelope; after a second, Finn's mom takes it. "I should have given this to you much, much sooner," the witch lady says. "Years ago. For that I apologize. But Wim and Leah had just been entrusted into my care, and I thought..." She shakes her head. "I suppose it doesn't matter now. But you should read this, before you go. So you're... prepared."

"Prepared?" Finn asks. "Prepared for what?"

But the witch lady doesn't answer. She just cocks her head and smiles at him and says, "And tell Rachel to come find me when she knows where to go next."

"What?" Finn asks, but she just turns around and walks away, out of the room and down the hallway and out of sight.

Finn turns back to his mom. "Should I -- "

But his mom is staring down at the envelope in her hands, so Finn looks at it too.

The thing is? Finn's not like, in the FBI or anything. He doesn't know about handwriting the way that cops on tv do. But he spent the better part of three months last year staring at an envelope with the name _Sayid Jarrah_ written on it, and so there's at least one person whose handwriting he will absolutely recognize.

And that's the writing that's on the envelope in his mom's hands, the one that says, _Carole Hudson_ on it.

"Mom?" he asks.

She doesn't answer.

He puts his arm around her and leads her backward to the bed so she can sit down, the envelope shaking in her hands the entire time.

 

*

 

The guy in the purple shirt, the guy who pulled Kurt out of the lagoon and who knows Juliet and who keeps looking at them all funny, is named Bernard. He has a wife named Rose (who shakes her head and sighs when she sees them), and a crudely-built house by the ocean, and a weird sort of outdoor pantry with a bunch of canned goods. All the cans have these weird, generic-looking labels, and Kurt knows he's seen that octagonal design somewhere before, but he's struggling to remember.

His father knows. Kurt knows his father knows, because the first thing he does is make a beeline for the cans and pick one up and just stare at the label for a long time. He puts it down eventually, once Rose brings out the hydrogen peroxide (white label, black logo, and why can't Kurt remember where he's seen it before?) and the cotton balls and the needle and thread. He puts it down and takes hold of Kurt's hand instead, so Kurt can concentrate on his dad's steady comforting grip and not the burn and sting as Juliet cleans his arm up and sews him back together. But his eyes keep going back to that damned can.

Kurt doesn't know for sure what it means, but he knows it means something.

_It means time._

"So explain to me again," Juliet says, wrapping white gauze around the stitches on Kurt's arm. "What makes you so sure Ben's not on the Island?"

"He _is_ on the Island," Kurt's dad says. "Just... Not the Ben we know." He pats Kurt's hand, soothingly; it only makes Kurt's stomach twist more. Then he glances up at Bernard and Rose. "Don't suppose the two of you happen to have a calendar anywhere around?"

Bernard looks at Rose; Rose looks back at her husband. "Charlie brought us one," she says. "Round about Christmas. He always does, not that it matters much out here. But if you're asking what I think you're asking -- it's 1981."

Juliet actually laughs at that, a little bit. Kurt looks at Brittany, who's standing in one of Bernard's old t-shirts, with a pair of Rose's pants rolled up around her knees. _We're back_ , he thinks, and he's really starting to wonder if he's going to be sick.

"Could I have some water, please," he says, and Bernard takes one look at him and then moves off to a sort of cistern they've got by their little pantry, comes back with a tin cup full of water for him.

His father shifts from patting his hand to rubbing his back.

Juliet's eyes go wide. "You're serious," she says.

"You were fine about this when Brittany was the one traveling back in time," Kurt's dad points out, and oh. _Oh._

This is why Brittany had to come. This is why Kurt had to come with her. Because they'd already done it once, and she'd seen it, and she knows, and now he knows too.

Kurt pulls his cup of water tighter and feels his lower lip starting to tremble, because.

Because it makes sense and it shouldn't make sense and he's scared.

"You traveled back in time?" Bernard asks, looking over at Brittany; she digs her toes into the sand and ducks her head, sad and guilty, and Kurt finds his voice again, because he needs to.

"It's not your fault," he says, quietly. "Brittany. It's not your fault. You were just trying to help Blaine's dad. No one's mad at you. You just wanted to help."

Brittany doesn't look up. She sniffles. "I was supposed to get him where he needed to be," she says. "I was... He told me I could help. That I could get Mr. A to the right place. Where he's supposed to be."

Kurt's dad clears his throat. "Yeah," he says. "About that. I think... I think I know why we got sent back."

 

*

 

Everything looks familiar, but not in the right ways.

He still remembers the Barracks -- the swingset, the old unused school, their house and their porch and the blue Adirondack chair that Tom gave them. And he remembers the jungle just beyond the fence; he still dreams about it sometimes, that specific shade of darkest green and the noises of birds, animals, leaves falling to the forest floor. The muffled treads of his own people, the angry thunder that signaled a boar coming. A faintly metallic chittering that still lingers around the edges of his nightmares. He remembers the Island.

This, though. This is... wrong.

He clings to his father's hand and tries not to think about the fact that it feels like there's a dam inside his head that's about to break open. Because he has to keep going, now. They are here and Kurt and Brittany and Mr. Hummel and Juliet and Sayid -- they're all gone. Which means that Blaine has to do something. Which means he has to keep moving.

So he does.

"Weird to be back," Ana says, eyes still fixed straight ahead. She fell into step with them as they headed past the plane; Hurley did too, but he dropped to the back immediately, trailing behind. Ana took the lead at once, like she knows where she's going. Which, apparently, she does. "Spent a lot of time here, when They grabbed me. Home sweet polar bear cage."

"Polar bear cage?" Blaine's father repeats, sounding bemused.

Blaine's grip tightens on his father's hand. His knees feel weak. He’s not totally sure how he’s still moving, apart from that he has to, so he is.

"Wait," Cooper says, coming to a dead stop in the middle of the path. "Wait. Wait. Hang on. You've -- You've been here? Before? You know where we are."

"Sort of," Ana says, and she stops too, but she doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look at any of them. Blaine wonders, just for a second, if she’s always been this way. Like she’s being accused of something, even if she’s really not at all.

"So... How do we get back?" Cooper starts slow but picks up steam as he goes along, as the idea catches hold of him. "Because you've been here, but you left, so obviously there's a way out, so how did you --"

Ana does turn at that, dark curls falling into her eyes, face suspiciously neutral. "I got lucky," she says, her voice tight. Then her eyes fall on Blaine and his father, and she adds, "Ben's the one who actually planned his escape. And he pulled it off, too. Maybe we should ask him how he did it."

Cooper turns to them, bright blue eyes and sharp cheekbones and perfect hair. Blaine thinks about the way Kurt had gotten flustered when Cooper stepped on board the plane, and feels sick all over again. "You've been here too?" he asks. "Here, on this island?"

Blaine's father sort of waves Cooper off, staring around at the trees, at the plants, at the green all around them, and the nausea gets worse. "Of course," he says, vaguely. "Of course, of course."

Blaine comes to a dead stop, pulling his father up short when he tries to move on. He can't move. His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth and it feels like he can't even breathe.

_holding his father's hands in both his and his father is still shaking; his father has been shaking ever since grandpa roger came by the house and blaine doesn't know why but he knows he can find out, if he holds his father's hands and_ listens --

"Blaine?" His father stays tethered to him by their joined hands, held close but still too far away. "Blaine, is something wrong?"

"You don't remember this place," Blaine says, his voice shaking; it's as close as he's ever come to saying that his father is lying, but he can't, he can't --

His dad's eyebrows draw together; he frowns, steps back towards Blaine a little. "Well, it's been a decade, Blaine; I don't suppose I'll recognize every single tree, but I --"

" _No_." It's not just Blaine's voice that's shaking now; it's all of him, and he thinks maybe he should let go of his father's hand, that it won't be so strong if he just lets of his father's hand, but he can't, he can't, because -- "You don't remember. You don't remember anything. At all."

_it's not much at first, just soft footsteps, distant voices, but blaine holds his father's hand and closes his eyes and listens and --_

_"-- just a little further, now," grandpa roger says, and blaine's dad comes to a stop, because he's seen it, how Grandpa Roger keeps patting the taser at his waist when he thinks Blaine's dad isn't looking, how he keeps almost reaching out and then not, almost speaking and then closing his mouth again, and Ben isn't a fool, he's not a child, he knows, now --_

"You don't remember," Blaine says again, helplessly, and the expression on his father's face shifts from confused frustration into a sort of terrible fear that Blaine can't begin to face; he closes his eyes and drops his head.

"Blaine --" his father says, stepping in close, laying a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "What is it? What's wrong?"

_"Why are we here, Dad?" And Blaine's father sounds so tired. He is tired. Years of playing Grandpa Roger's little games, of being his tool, his only weapon, and he's exhausted and Blaine is still in the Barracks with only Tom to protect him, and Ben is here, unable to protect his son, and he can't do this, he can't trust anyone else to take care of Blaine, he can't trust anyone._

_Least of all, his own father._

"He remembers," Ethan says.

Cooper says, "Jesus!" like he's startled.

Blaine's father steps in close and wraps both arms around Blaine, protectively. _Mine. Blaine. Love._ "What do you want, Ethan?" he snaps.

Blaine keeps his eyes tight shut and burrows his face into his father's chest and waits. Because Ethan knows what Blaine did and what he saw; ; Ethan has always known, and now he's going to tell them all, he's going to make Blaine tell, and --

"He remembers this place," Ethan says, and his voice is softer than Blaine would have expected. Sadder. "He remembers this place and you don't, Ben. Don't tell me you don't know what that means."

" _I_ don't know what that means," Cooper says, quietly.

But Blaine's father does; Blaine can tell by the way his hand reaches up to cup the back of Blaine's head, the way he says, "Blaine," so softly, so wounded.

_"This is for your own good," Ben's father says, and Ben is half tempted to shoot him anyway, but there are five men with their guns all pointed at him, and he has to survive this. Blaine needs him to survive this._

_He drops his weapon._

"If I may make a suggestion?" Ethan's voice is still so sad; Blaine can't understand it, but he's grateful. It's a reprieve. He doesn't have to think about it anymore. He doesn't have to -- "Take him back to the beach, for now. Ana and I will search the buildings here. If there's anything that tells us where Kurt or the others have gone to, we'll come to you and let you know. But, for now, take care of your son.”

"So you're helping me now?" Blaine's father asks, but it's lacking the usual edge of suspicion.

"You're the Leader," Ethan says, too quick and too glib. "But no, Benjamin. I'm not helping you. I'm helping _him_."

With his face buried in his father's shirt, Blaine can't be sure who Ethan is looking at when he says that -- _I'm helping him_ \-- But he knows, anyway. He knows.

Ethan is protecting Blaine. Just as he's done before.

_"You know, Dad," Ben says, looking his father straight in the eyes. "You always were a terrible liar."_

_Then the bag drops over his head and they start pushing him forward, a gun barrel in his back, and he goes._

"Anything you find that might be helpful," Blaine's father said. "Anything at all."

"Of course," Ethan says. "Of course."

_As they took Ben away, he kept thinking, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, blaine. i'm so sorry."_

_and blaine cried and cried and cried, sitting there holding his father's hand, seeing everything through his father's eyes, everything that had happened to him. he cried and he cried and he cried._

_and he knew, somehow, that he was going to have to fix this._

"Come on," Blaine's father says. "Let's go."

And Blaine doesn't let go of his father, but he shifts just enough so that they can walk together, his arms wrapped sideways around his father's waist and his father's arm around his shoulders, and he lets his father lead him back to the beach.

 

*

 

She's lying on her bed, trying to make herself concentrate on Charlotte Lewis's CV (and not really succeeding), when there's a tap at the door, and her dad calls out, "Someone here to see you, Rachel," and she is abruptly, startlingly terrified.

But there's no reason to be scared, not when she is here and Blaine and Kurt and Brittany don't have that luxury and if they're not scared she won't be either, so she pushes her reading to the side and sits up straight and says, "Of course. Come in!" like absolutely nothing is wrong.

The door swings open.

It's Finn.

He looks like... Like _everything_ is wrong.

Rachel is up on her feet at once, reaching out and pulling him down for a tight hug; she only barely hears her dad say, "We'll be in the living room if you need us, honey," before the door is closing again.

"You're going," she says, clinging to Finn as tight as she can, because she knows why he's going, and she knows that he has to, she just -- "Aren't you? You're going after them."

"Yeah." Finn breathes it out, shaky, in her ear, his strong arms tightening around her, and she knows this could be the last time they hold each other like this, the last time for a long time anyway, and so she clings to him even as her calves tense up from standing on her toes and her shoulders start to knot. "I'm... I'm going."

"I love you," Rachel whispers, tears starting to prickle at her eyes.

"I love you too."

They hold each other like that, in the middle of her bedroom, until they absolutely can't anymore, until Finn has to straighten his back and Rachel has to drop back down to her heels again. Even then, Finn's hands stay on her shoulders, steady, although she can tell that he's feeling anything but.

"What is it?" she asks. "What's wrong?"

Finn stares down at her for a long time, like he's working up his nerve. Then, finally, he says, "That... um... The witch lady. Eloise Widmore. She was at our house, today."

And the terror starts creeping up Rachel's spine again, even with Finn there to protect her. "Oh," she says.

"She... Um. She wanted me to tell you something."

"Okay," Rachel says, a little breathless now. "Okay. Um. So. What... What is it?"

 

*

 

"You're gonna want a knife," Jack says, and Cooper blinks down at the mangoes in his hands, blinks up at Jack hovering over him, like he came out of nowhere. "For the mangoes. Trust me, it's a lot easier than trying to bite through the peel."

"Oh." It takes a second for Cooper to manage, but he finally manages to tuck all four mangoes into the crook of his arm and take hold of the knife that Jack is offering. It's a big, ugly looking thing, not like the cheap ones in Cooper's kitchen. Like something off _Crocodile Dundee_ or maybe _Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles_ or something like that. Just looking at it makes Cooper feel nervous. "Wow. Where'd you get that?"

Jack laughs. "It's not mine," he says, quickly. "No, one of the guys back in business class had a suitcase full of them. I guess he was going on some sort of... Nature excursion, something like that. Walkabout, I think he called it." Jack turns, looks around at the jungle, laughs again. "Guess at least one of us is having their dream vacation."

"Yeah," Cooper says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He was thinking maybe he should ask Jack something about PTSD, because Blaine was acting really weird back in the jungle and Cooper doesn't think he'll hurt anyone, but he'd like to make Blaine feel better if he could. But there's something he doesn't like about Jack handing people knives and laughing about it, so now he thinks maybe he'd better not. "Yeah, sure. Anyway, thanks for the --"

"Taking those over to Ben and Blaine?" Jack asks, turning away to rummage through a nearby suitcase. Cooper wonders if it belonged to someone who disappeared, or someone who got hurt, or if it's just a suitcase of things that someone offered up. He wonders if Jack would care either way.

"Yeah," Cooper says, again. "I figured, you know, they could probably stand to eat something, and that nice Korean lady said there were plenty of mangoes to share, so --"

"No, it's good. That you're looking out for them. I mean, we've gotta stick together, right?" Jack stands up; there's something in his hand.

Cooper takes half a step back; his hand tightens on the knife.

Then Jack turns, brandishing a bottle of pills. "Who knows how long we'll be here?" Jack continues, reaching out and tucking the pill bottle on top of Cooper's pile of mangoes. "We don't even really know where here is, you know? I just feel like... Way I see it? If we can't live together, we're gonna die alone. You know what I mean?"

"Something like that," Cooper says, staring at Jack.

There's something almost feral about the way Jack smiles back at him.

Then Jack shifts back, puts space between them, and suddenly it's all just... normal, so normal that Cooper wonders if he's imagining things. Maybe the creepy jungle and Blaine's weird flashback thingy and that Ethan guy coming out of nowhere freaked him out more than he thought it did. "That's ibuprofen," he says. "For Ben's shoulder. He probably won't want to take it, but if you could get him to just take one, after he's eaten. To help bring some of the swelling down."

"I'll... I'll do my best," Cooper says, and wonders how long it takes after the trauma before someone can have post-traumatic stress disorder, and whether or not he's already got it. "Thanks. For the knife."

Then he takes his knife and his mangoes and hurries away, to where Ben and Blaine have once again separated themselves from everyone else, sitting together on the beach. He may not be sure how to feel about Jack, but he knows that Ben and Blaine need him, and that's enough for right now.

 

_January 9th, 1981_

 

The first thing Kate sees when she finally pulls up to Rose and Bernard's homestead and throws the Jeep into park is two teenagers sitting huddled together -- a delicate-featured boy and a long-limbed girl with straight blonde hair. They're not DHARMA kids because Kate has never seen them before; they can't be Hostiles, either, because neither of them is armed. They're just... kids, bundled up in Rose and Bernard's old clothes and watching Kate with wide eyes as she approaches them.

And standing nearby, talking quietly, are two adults. A bald, burly man in a plaid flannel shirt, and a woman, blonde like the girl. They, too, turn to look at Kate as she approaches.

It takes Kate a second to realize, a double-take to make sure she's not seeing things, and then she realizes.

"Juliet?" she asks, hand creeping instinctively back to where her gun is securely strapped to her waist.

"Hello, Kate," Juliet says; her eyes dart to Kate's hand, then back up to her face. Fearless. Juliet always was. "Nice jumpsuit."

"I'm sorry to call you in like this," Bernard says, so close and so sudden that Kate almost flinches, just barely manages to control it. "Mr. Hummel started asking us about DHARMA and some of the people there -- the kids, and I didn't know how to answer, and I thought... I thought you would."

Kate glances over at the bald guy. He's tall, broad-shouldered. Looks strong. But she could take him down if she had to. She's taken down bigger in her time. "Kids, huh?" she asks.

Bernard shrugs helplessly.

"So," Kate says, taking a couple of steps towards the bald guy. One of the teenagers, the boy, scrambles to stand up quickly -- the bald guy holds out a hand, stopping him. "You're Mr. Hummel?"

"Prefer Burt, actually," the bald guy says. He cocks his head to the side, looks at her. "And you're Kate Austen. Head of security for the DHARMA Initiative."

Kate folds her arms, looks up at him. "That's right," she says.

"But you weren't, always," he says. "Three years ago, and roughly thirty years from now, you were a fugitive. Accused of murder, bank robbery, arson... Bunch of other things. They caught you in Australia, and were going to extradite you back to the U.S. That's why you were on Oceanic 815 when it crashed somewhere in the Pacific."

He learned it from Juliet. He must have. But how the hell did Juliet -- How the hell did _any_ of them -- "Do I know you?" she asks, trying to fake calm. Luckily for her, she's been doing it for years. She's good at it.

"No," Burt says. His eyes are steady. He's remarkably calm. Any other day, Kate could see herself being friends with a guy like this. "But we have a mutual friend. Sort of. It's complicated. Time travel will do that to you."

"I guess so," Kate says. It's been a while since she's felt the world upending itself around her in this particular way. In fact, it's pretty sure it hasn't happened since she was the one traveling through time. "So, who's the friend?"

"When I know him," Burt says, "he's calling himself Ben Anderson. Nice guy. Math teacher. Hell of a good one, from what I hear. But right now, Kate? He's a twelve year-old boy who goes by the name of Benjamin Linus. And if I've got my dates right, which I think I do, something really, really bad is about to happen to him."

 


End file.
